


and on your head a crown

by icygrace



Series: royal commands [3]
Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, France - Freeform, Scotland, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:47:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 111,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icygrace/pseuds/icygrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Sequel to "the thinnest of threads." Previously called "if I look back I am lost."</p><p>Much of Kenna's life has been relatively uncomplicated, largely because it has been blessedly unconstrained by the whims of kings or queens: the years she can barely remember before her first departure for France, the early years in France before Mary was sent to the convent and her ladies home, the years in Scotland before her mother’s death, her time at French court before her dalliance with Henry, the period between the plague and Francis’s descent into madness, and the time after she and Bash arrived in Scotland until Mary's return to rule in her own right.</p><p>But after Mary's return, Kenna's life once again becomes defined by royal commands and royal acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lord and lady of mar

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate sequel to the thinnest of threads, so the first chapter is similar to "a true and gentle knight," but they quickly diverge. Spec fic/historical AU after Francis’s death. Also fiddling with the historical timeline, historical figures, and various reigns and now AU as regards Diane de Poitiers and a few other characters. Title from "No Featherbed for Me" in George R.R. Martin’s A Storm of Swords.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s clearly a form letter some secretary is writing on behalf of the queen, but there is a note at the end in Mary’s familiar hand, signed Marie R. with a flourish. It’s the command of a queen wrapped in the request of a friend.

They’ve been comfortably settled in Scotland for just about four years when Kenna’s father receives news that changes everything.

 

Father frowns as he reads over the missive that was waiting for him at the head of the table when the two of them came down for breakfast. “The queen is returning.”

 

Kenna puts down her spoon, suddenly having lost her appetite. “Does it say when?”

 

“No, but it’s suggested we lords should be ready to attend our liege and pledge fealty to her at Holyrood when she is returned.”

 

\---

 

Eventually a summons – officially an invitation, but they both served royals long enough to know better – arrives for Bash and Kenna. It’s clearly a form letter some secretary is writing on behalf of the queen, but there is a note at the end in Mary’s familiar hand: _Do come. It will be the greatest comfort to see your familiar faces among so many strangers. I’ve missed you dearly._ It’s signed _Marie R._ , with a flourish.

 

It’s the command of a queen wrapped in the request of a friend.

 

\---

 

Holyrood Palace is bedecked so splendidly that Father makes disapproving noises, saying the crown “simply hasn’t got the money for displays like this.”

 

But Kenna must admit that, very deep down, she missed displays like this. Nearly as much as she misses the periods in which her life was not so complicated: the early years in France before Mary was sent to the convent, the years in Scotland before her mother’s death, her time at French court before her dalliance with Henry, the period between the plague and Francis’s descent into madness, the time after their departure from France for Scotland until now.

 

Now everything is changing.

 

\---

 

Mary is beautiful as ever, despite the faint new lines around her eyes and mouth. Her first words are for Tara. “My, you’re a pretty girl.”

 

Tara is really still too small to attend such a formal event, but Mary insisted on meeting her as soon as possible. Tara promptly hides her face against Bash’s leg. She’s very much her papa’s girl.

 

With her rich gown and her intricate crown and hair swept up in a rather dramatic fashion, Mary does cut an imposing figure – which was likely exactly the intended effect, in order to intimidate the restive nobles. 

 

“Don’t be frightened, love,” Bash coaxes gently. “The queen is a friend of Mama and Papa’s.”

 

Tara slowly turns her head toward Mary.

 

“And she just paid you a very kind compliment,” Bash continues patiently. “What do you say?”

 

“Thank you, ma’am.” Tara’s enunciation is careful as she does her best to properly address the unfamiliar woman in front of her.

 

Tara is too little to know the difference _ma’am_ and _my lady_ and _Your Grace_ and all the rest, but Mary is their queen, so Kenna corrects her, fearing Mary may feel slighted otherwise. “It’s ‘thank you, _Your Majesty_ ,’” she says gently. “That’s what you say to the queen.”

 

“Don’t be silly. It’s true that I _am_ , so that’s how others must address me, but you are family and you may call me Aunt Mary,” Mary tells Tara in the firm yet gentle tone she once used with Charles and little Henry.

 

Kenna recognizes the significance of the command. Though Francis – who linked them as family in law – is dead, Mary will continue to claim them as her kin in name.

 

Tara hesitates, but Mary nods encouragingly, until she finally, deliberately, repeats Mary’s words in her sweet childish lisp. “Aunt Mary.”

 

Mary’s smile is more sincere than any she ever wore after Francis’s coronation as she moves to embrace Kenna.

 

\---

 

That night, Mary requests her presence in her chambers, alone. She calls for chocolate to drink and apple tarts for a treat – “they’re still your favorite?” – as soon as Kenna crosses her threshold.

 

She’s surprised Mary remembered.

 

It feels strange. She rarely spent time alone with just Mary without Greer or Lola before leaving court and their absent friends linger like ghosts between them.

 

Greer has Lord Castleroy and his children and two children of her own that tie her firmly to the continent now, while Francis’s death freed Lola of all ties save to her young son and his holdings. Disowned by her family and now a wealthy woman in her own right, Lola is unlikely ever to set foot on Scottish soil again.

 

“I’ve so much to tell you,” Mary starts. “I hardly know where to begin.”

 

“At the beginning?” Kenna quips.

 

“You always knew how to lighten things,” Mary says gratefully. “But these are heavy things.” She sighs and they sit in silence until Kenna speaks again.

 

“Why did you take so long to return?”

 

“When Francis died, I . . . was devastated. He is the love of my life. I could not – still cannot – imagine replacing him or ever giving my heart to another. But acting on the advice of my de Guise uncles, I eventually began looking for a new marriage and a new alliance. They felt it would be best for me to return with the strength of an ally at my back, what with the Protestants. But nothing came through and I couldn’t continue delaying my return with my mother dead. I’m needed here and there was nothing holding me in France anymore.”

 

Her throat feels tight listening to her old friend, because Mary’s life these past few years strikes her as unbearably sad.

 

“But I need friends I can trust at my side, because the world is a dark and dangerous place for queens alone. Will you help me, Kenna? You and Bash?”

 

Kenna forgets herself for a moment, forgets the reality of their world, seeing not her queen before her, but a vulnerable, lonely girl she once loved like a sister, now alone in the world, and nods, a wordless promise she fears even then she will come to regret.

 

\---

 

She finds herself laughing at her own misgivings when letters patent arrive at Livingston House a few short weeks after their return from Holyrood. They’re packing for court, where they have some of the best rooms in the palace awaiting them. “An earldom, Father!” She thinks she may be floating rather than walking.

 

Her father brings her back down to earth in the most terrible way. “I’m pleased for you and for Sebastian, but –”

 

“But?”

 

“Take care that there are no . . . strings attached to the queen’s generosity.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“She’s a woman alone now and she nearly married him once, didn’t she?”

 

Kenna feels as though her blood freezes in her veins at the thought, but she takes a breath and tries to think of every reason why her father is wrong.

 

Bash offers a beleaguered queen nothing – no royal alliance, no armies, no wealth. He has only the title, lands, and income Mary herself has just bestowed on him.

 

And yet . . . Kenna scorned Bash once herself, but soon found his hand and his heart to be more than enough to make up for his lack of title or wealth, more precious than all the money in the world.

 

“It isn’t just kings who take lovers, my girl. Do you think Marie de Guise had no men to warm her bed all the years she ruled in her daughter’s name?”

 

Mary once let Bash’s heart and his hand slip through her fingers for Francis, who she loved. Francis, who went mad, Francis, who is dead.

 

Mary is still young and passionate and _alive_ , and so is Bash.

 

But so is Kenna and _Kenna_ has Bash. She is not willing to lose him and she’s not as naïve as she once was.

 

(And he loves _her_.)

 

\---

 

Father passes away just before they’re meant to return to court.

 

It devastates her more than she could have imagined – she has her breakfast brought to her in bed every morning because the thought of eating downstairs without him has her fit to weep – and, as glad as she is to have had these better years with him, she sometimes wishes she hadn’t, if only so the loss of him would hurt less.

 

She feels unready to return to court when she finally must after an “appropriate” mourning period. But she is Mary’s chief lady-in-waiting and ladies-in-waiting do not make their queens wait.

 

The only thing that makes the return bearable is that Andrew accompanies them in order to pay his respects to the queen in his role as the new earl. Callum, who rubbed stubbornly at his eyes when told he would remain behind, travels with them as well.

 

\---

 

Shortly after their return to court, the queen invites Bash to join her privy council.

 

“It will look very ill,” Andrew cautions as soon as Kenna shares the news.

 

If anything, the invitation had been a relief to Kenna, suggesting the fine title, finer lands, and handsome income Mary had granted Bash were an inducement meant to guilt him into taking on the rather burdensome responsibility of a spot on the Privy Council, rather than anything more ominous. That perhaps Father’s warning had been that of a man who knew, somehow, that he had little time left and feared for those he was leaving behind. “Why? Bash was her husband’s brother and deputy, he is a trusted friend and –”

 

“He was deputy to the king of _France_ –”

 

“Who was also king consort of Scotland!”

 

Andrew speaks right over her. “Sebastian is a trusted friend who is _French_ –”

 

“With a Scotswoman for a wife –”

 

Andrew continues undeterred, Bash’s habit of speaking plainly seeming to have rubbed off on him over their years in the same household. “He’s kin to the boy king of France, whose regent is the infamously venomous Catherine de Medici. He’s the bastard son of a _French_ king who tried to usurp his brother’s place as dauphin of _France_. During the attempted usurpation, he was betrothed to our queen. All of that will come back to haunt him and make him the object of mistrust and suspicion if he accepts the position.” Andrew scoffs. “Far be it from me to speak ill of our queen, but, if she cares for you both at all, she’s acted foolishly. She’s put a great big target on his back.”

 

“She means to honor him, to honor _us_ , her friends who serve her loyally.”

 

“At best, people will think she’s elevating him because he’s her lover.”

 

What reason has her husband given her family to suspect him so? “He would never –”

 

Andrew chews at his lip. “I wouldn’t think so either, I’ve come to know him well and think of him as a brother, but . . . You _are_ my sister and I must think of you first. That means looking for hidden dangers, even if you don’t want to hear them. And the truth is he betrayed his own brother for her once.”

 

Kenna fists her hands in her skirts with sudden, impotent fury. But not wanting their disagreement to be obvious to the others around them, she kisses Andrew’s cheek before walking away.

 

\---

 

In the weeks and months that follow, she tries to ignore the fears filling her mind.

 

But nearly every day, her husband spends hours closeted away with their queen, “advising” her well into the night on everything from handling the Protestants to handling her suitors. In her most overwrought moments, Kenna wonders how quickly their queen would accept one of the men she keeps at arm’s length if she suddenly found herself with child.

 

And what if she can’t marry quickly enough? Or what if she can, but the child looks too obviously like its true father to fool anyone, let alone a court full of people waiting to see their queen fall? Kenna can see Mary’s imaginary child in her mind’s eye, raven-haired like Mary and green-eyed like Bash and Tara. Imagine the great Mary, Queen of Scots, revealed to all the world as a strumpet and a whore!

 

The maniacal edge to her laughter as she imagines the scandal would make Kenna fear herself and make her fear for her own sanity if she didn’t know that she only laughs so she won’t cry.  She often wonders if the Valois madness she once desperately feared has passed over her husband and seized her instead.

 

\---

 

It is not easy for her as she devotes her time to waiting on Mary and socializing with the other lords’ wives, interactions arranged primarily for the purpose of surreptitiously gleaning useful information for Mary from their silly chatter. She often finds her eyes wandering to the queen and to _her_ husband, who seems barely to leave their queen’s side.

 

But tonight . . . tonight, Lady Walton, whose husband sits on the Privy Council with Bash, is particularly keen on pleasing the queen’s chief lady-in-waiting.

 

Kenna signals to a servant boy for another glass of wine for herself and for Lady Walton. She finds she always has need of an extra glass when dealing with Lady Walton.

 

The servant returns promptly, handing her the first glass, which she passes to Lady Walton. One must be gracious, after all. 

 

Lady Walton takes a sip, making a long, pleased sound low in her throat. “What a fine vintage.”

 

Kenna hides a smirk behind her hand. It must be a truly excellent vintage, though it smells a bit strong for her taste. But even if it were the finest wine ever made – well, if _wine_ elicits such a reaction from Lady Walton, Kenna cannot imagine how the woman must react when properly pleasured. Perhaps she never has been.

 

Before Kenna can take a sip herself, Lady Walton drops her glass, drawing the attention of every person in the room as she clutches madly at her throat, choking and turning purple.

 

She dies before their very eyes.

 

\---

 

Bash does not return to their chambers until the wee hours of the night. He’s had much work and lately she also suspects he’s troubled by his youngest brother’s death in another outbreak of the plague in France, though he hasn’t said much about it. He always tries his hardest not to wake her when he keeps later hours, but rarely succeeds. It’s just that sometimes she won’t let on so he doesn’t feel badly.

 

Tonight, she lets on. She saw a woman die tonight – a woman who drank the same wine she nearly drank herself. Tonight, all she needs and wants is to be reminded that she’s lucky enough to be alive. She kisses her husband hungrily.

 

Having him below her and above her and inside her nearly drives everything else out.


	2. his highness the duke of anjou and the lady kenna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, not long after Lady Walton’s death, Mary summons Kenna to her rooms for a private tea.

One day, not long after Lady Walton’s death, Mary summons Kenna to her rooms for a private tea.

 

Lately, Tara has accompanied her and Mary always looks at her so sadly that Kenna’s heart nearly breaks for her childless friend.

 

But today the invitation is for Kenna alone. When she arrives, Mary beckons her to sit as a servant places a pot of chocolate and a plate of apple tarts between them. Although it is not their usual day, it is their usual tea.

 

Today Kenna hasn’t much of an appetite, so she waves away the treats.

 

Mary also eschews the tarts, but takes several sips of chocolate before saying anything. “I am telling you this myself because you deserve to hear it from me. My ministers have failed to secure an acceptable match for me, one that will be sufficiently advantageous to Scotland. I’ve come to the conclusion that renewing the French alliance is the best course of action,” she says slowly. “Catherine was adamant that it be done by marriage.”

 

She does not understand how Mary could possibly secure the French alliance by marriage again. Charles is still half a boy. King Antoine of Navarre, who would follow him, is married to Queen Jeanne. But Queen Jeanne has always been sickly.

 

Even so, there is Antoine’s younger brother, Prince Louis of Condé, who once had a _tendré_ for Mary. But Condé is married to Bash’s horrid younger sister. Perhaps Condé is tired of Claude’s wild ways, of her flagrant infidelity – more flagrant than even his own, of their lack of children – which Mary may not solve either, she thinks disloyally, and Catherine has –

 

No. Tying Mary to the Bourbons would only give her incentive to turn on Charles and Catherine.

 

“In Charles’s name, she’s petitioned to have Bash legitimized and named him Duke of Anjou.”

 

 _The title I was expecting was the_   _Duke of Anjou, with a château in Anjou_ , _with_ _a_   _suite of rooms in Anjou_.

 

And now she’s actually _M_ _adame la duchesse d’Anjou_. She can hardly believe it. It sounds rather grand, even grander than Countess of Mar. But she’s puzzled as to what this has to do with Mary and the French alliance. And why now, when they’re in Scotland?

 

“He will come before Antoine and Louis in the succession. He may style himself prince.”

She’ll be the highest lady in the French royal family after Catherine and ahead of Claude, who now takes her status from Louis, until Charles – 

Mary clears her throat after taking another sip of chocolate, sounding oddly uncomfortable for someone delivering such excellent news. “I don’t – I’ll just have to say it.” Her words tumble out in a rush. “Your marriage will be annulled on the grounds of defect of consent and consanguinity –”

 

 _Defect of consent._ A polite way of saying they’d been forced to marry at sword-point, on pain of death. But, wait –

_Your marriage will be annulled on the grounds of defect of consent and consanguinity –_

 

_Your marriage will be annulled on the grounds of defect of consent and consanguinity –_

_Your marriage will be annulled on the grounds of defect of consent and consanguinity –_

 

Her field of vision curls and turns black at the edges and then, mercifully, she is engulfed by the darkness.

 

\---

 

When she regains consciousness, Bash is at her side. He frowns with concern, the dark smudges under his eyes that never entirely seem to fade lately standing out even more sharply.

 

It takes but a half-moment for her to remember the revelation that caused her to lose consciousness. “No,” she says aloud and she’s taken aback by how hoarse she sounds.

 

Bash flinches. “Kenna –”

 

Then she _knows_ and her voice shakes with her fury. She _is_ her fury. “How long have you plotted to be rid of me?”

 

“I did not wish to be rid of you, it’s not –”

 

She interrupts him as a terrible thought dawns on her. “When Lady Walton – did you mean her poisoned cup for me?”

 

“Of course not! I would never wish to hurt you!”

 

His anguished tones very nearly convince her, but this is the same man who’s being released from their marriage in order to marry their queen and he _will not_ fool her again. She scoffs instead, because she has no words sufficient to express her outrage.

 

“But I truly am sorry. I –”

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” she hisses.

 

“Kenna, please, I love –” 

 

It’s that that does her in. All she wants in the world is to be left alone with her pain. “Get out!”

 

He leaves.

 

\---

 

As she will leave him, she decides after she’s dried her tears and turned to more pressing matters, because neither she nor her daughter has a place at court anymore.

 

Her daughter. The only reason she will not wallow in bed and pray to die of her broken heart.

 

She calls for her brother, who tells her everything else she needs to know. He bribed the information out of the representative just arrived from the Vatican. Even recognizing him as the brother of the disgraced soon-to-be-ex Countess of Mar, the man had been happy to share the information with Andrew for sufficient coin, since it would be all over court in a matter of hours anyway.

 

And of little use to her, she quickly realizes.

 

“You recall how a bout of plague near French court took the life of Prince Henry?”

 

She nods.

 

“The petition for the annulment of your marriage was made shortly thereafter. Also for a dispensation so the queen might marry your husband once your marriage is annulled.”

 

“Can it really just be done like that? Without me _knowing_?”

 

“Your marriage hasn’t been annulled yet. And you do have a right to have your say before it is. It’s just – neither of you consented to marry and you didn’t receive a dispensation to marry despite your degree of consanguinity – the fact that you –”

 

“Had a sexual relationship with his father prior to our wedding,” she finishes bluntly. “I recall; I _was_ there. Henry would never have presumed to dispose of me as he did otherwise.”

 

Andrew’s discomfort with that period of her life shows plainly on his face. “The Vatican has sufficient grounds to grant him an annulment, even if you fight it.”

 

“So my marriage has been a lie, all these years?”

 

“Kenna –”

 

She takes a breath. “You’re not my enemy,” she interrupts calmly. “You’re my brother and it seems my one friend in this world and you’re only trying to help me,” she continues, hating the tears in her voice. “I’m sorry.”

 

When they were children out of the nursery and she couldn’t fall asleep, she would rap three times on the wall between their bedrooms; that was the signal for Andrew to come into her room. He would lie down beside her and she would put her head on his skinny little shoulder, even though her pillow was much better for resting against. Sleep would quickly claim them both until morning, when Nanny Moira would scold Andrew soundly for escaping his own room. (Now Kenna can’t help but wonder why Nanny Moira never nipped it in the bud, since she always seemed to know.)

 

But now they are grown, so her brother merely sits beside her, but still lets her lay her aching head against his strong shoulder.

 

He kisses the crown of her head and whispers, “I’m sorry, Ken. I should have – I hadn’t the faintest idea any of this was happening. I could have –”

 

“No, you couldn’t have. With the queen of Scotland and the king of France – or rather, his regent – against me, what chance would I have of prevailing even if my marriage truly was valid?” She shakes her head. “My God, I didn’t dream – Catherine must fear the Bourbons more than she fears Bash.”

 

Bash may have betrayed Francis, but he also saved his life on more than one occasion. And Kenna knew that Mary had promised that she and Bash would care for Catherine’s sons when their plotting to disinherit Francis to save his life nearly resulted in Catherine losing her head. Perhaps Catherine had recalled that.

 

“Of course she does. Antoine waits anxiously for some harm to befall young Charles and his Protestant brother is right there at French court to help things along. Sebastian, in contrast, is a fellow Catholic –”

 

Kenna has never revealed Bash’s pagan heritage and tendencies to _anyone_.

 

“And he will remain here at Scottish court.”

 

“ _I_ will not.”

 

“Of course you won’t,” Andrew agrees immediately. “Have your things packed at once.” He’s halfway to her door when he turns to look at her again. “If he wasn’t to be king, I’d kill him.”

 

“I know.”

 

The last thing she hears as the sleeping draught Andrew brought her begins to take effect – a split second too late, she wonders where he procured it and whether the source could be trusted, given what has befallen her – is his orders that Bash not be permitted entry, the servants’ distressed replies notwithstanding. “Lord Mar – Anjou – you know who I mean, my brother-in-law, whatever the bloody fuck –”

 

Andrew rarely swears; he must be taking this hard, too. Poor Andrew; he is trying so hard to be strong for her and refuses to show his own anger to her face and add to her pain.

 

“He calls himself now. He is barred from these rooms. Yes, I understand that he’s the queen’s betrothed – Precisely my point. He is the queen’s betrothed, so these are _not_ his rooms any longer, they are only my sister’s rooms.” Andrew’s normally calm voice drips with scorn. “She and my niece – the wife and daughter _His Highness_ will be setting aside to marry _her_ – are not to be disturbed, do you hear me? I don’t care if he threatens to cut you to ribbons, you _will not_ let him pass!”

 

\---

 

Just before dawn, just before they’re meant to depart for Livingston House, she falls into an uneasy sleep.

 

It feels as though she’s barely closed her eyes when her maid rouses her. “His Highness is here to –”

 

“Send _His Highness_ away,” she bites out sleepily. “Didn’t you hear my brother’s orders?” But she shouldn’t be surprised. Of course the servants will not listen to Andrew’s orders now. Though a high-ranking earl in his own right and once respected for his connections to the crown through his sister and brother-in-law, he is now weakened by his association with her – the wife the already-powerful Earl of Mar could so easily discard in exchange for a French dukedom and a Scottish crown.

 

“But my lady –”

 

“But nothing.”

 

“Leave us be, Eloise,” Bash orders from the doorway. “My wife may not wish to see me, but I must see her.”

 

“I am _not_ your wife!” The words wound her as she stands and spits them out, but she means to wound him worse now that she is fully awake.

 

He flinches. “For now you still are,” he corrects quietly. “You can’t leave.”

 

“You have no right to tell me what I can or can’t do.” She turns away from him. “You’ve chosen to set me aside and we won’t be married for much longer, will we? So it’s my father who would have a say over my affairs but –”

 

He catches her by one arm and then the other, pulling her closer, eyes steely. “As I have a say over my daughter’s. You have no right to take her from me.”

 

“She is _my_ daughter.” Mockingly, she continues, “My bastard –”

 

“Don’t call her that!”

 

“What? A bastard? That’s what she’ll be soon enough.”

 

“She will remain legitimate,” he hisses, fingers biting into her skin hard enough to bruise. “Did you think I’d consent to –“

 

“You _consented_ to set me aside, why not my child?”

 

“ _Our_ child!” It’s almost funny how furious he is. Until it stops being funny. “I could force you to leave her with me. I am still your husband. And I will be king. I could command it of you.”

 

She feels the blood drain from her face. Now, she’s glad he’s holding her so tightly, or else she might fall. She wishes that they’d left in the middle of the night, suddenly understanding why Andrew had preferred that alternative.

 

At Holyrood, the walls have ears.

 

She forces her voice to remain even. “Would you? If you care for Tara at all, you wouldn’t _dream_ of commanding me to leave her. I’m her mother. You’re setting me aside, you’re tearing our family apart, all to marry a queen, and then you would separate her from me so she might remain at her stepmother’s court, lonely and scorned while you dote on the royal children the queen will give you?”

 

“I wouldn’t!”

 

“Force me to leave her? Is that a promise?”

 

“I wouldn’t allow her to feel lonely or scorned. Anyone who dreamed of scorning her would answer to me!”

 

“You of all people know better. You know that even if he’d wished to Henry couldn’t have protected you from each and every person who hurt or humiliated you, least of all Catherine –”

 

“Mary is not Catherine, she would never – In fact, she would allow me to keep you at my side –”

 

“In your bed,” Kenna corrects. Her words are sadder than she would have wanted. “As your mistress,” she finishes for him, because she knows he will never say it aloud.

 

“Don’t –”

 

“I won’t be your wife anymore. According to Rome, I never truly was. If I warmed your bed, I’d be your mistress. It’s that simple. But I’m sorry, Your Highness, you won’t be having your cake and eating it, too. I will _never_ be your mistress and that’s why we must leave.”

 

Not even the sudden wetness of his eyes after he drops a kiss on their sleeping daughter’s forehead is enough to soften her heart. She is not Diane de Poitiers and her daughter will not be him.

 

He tries a final time. “You would tear her away from me?”

 

She hates him for trying to use their daughter as a pawn to bend her to his will. She is a mother and usually a soft-hearted one at that; it breaks her heart to do something that will break her child’s, but she must. “You tore her away yourself the moment you chose this life for us.”


	3. his majesty the king of scotland and the countess of mar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her anger and her heartbreak and her old fear of the Valois madness are not enough to make the foul-tasting tea she brews upon her return to Livingston House palatable.

Her anger and her heartbreak and her old fear of the Valois madness are not enough to make the foul-tasting tea she brews upon her return to Livingston House palatable. She tosses it out her window and ignores Nanny Moira’s relieved yet pitying look.

 

But she can’t rely on her brother’s generosity for the rest of her life. Her brother _can_ seek out a cooperative lord who will be swayed by the size of her dowry – the dowry she brought to her first marriage, since returned to her, and additional funds from Andrew himself. He did tell her he will give her whatever is necessary for her to marry well, when she is ready.

 

She will have to be ready sooner rather than later. Her conditions will now be far less materialistic than they once were. She will ask for a husband who has an heir – preferably _heirs_ – of his own and therefore will not have reason to resent her child ( _to resent_ me, adds the voice of the long-dead girl she used to be, the one who wished for love along with a wealthy, titled husband) if it should be a boy. She will ask for her daughter to live with her at her new home. She will ask for a quiet life, with an unambitious husband who will keep her far from court, forever, because she doesn’t think she can bear to witness the father of her children start a family with another.

 

\---

 

With a surprising lack of discomfort, she proceeds to explain her situation to Andrew. “I’m with child.”

 

He simply asks her what she wants to do.

 

No man has ever asked her that – not Father, not Henry, not even her former husband – and she loves her brother for it, more than she thought possible. She suddenly understands Greer’s great affection for Lord Pepperpot. Tears in her eyes, she tells Andrew that she wishes to stay.

 

Andrew’s grown less demonstrative over the years, but now he puts his arms around her. “This will always be your home.”

 

For the first time since the day she learned that her marriage was over, she cries in earnest.

 

The next morning, her maid tells her that the earl awaits her in the dining room. She’s had her breakfast on a tray in bed since Father died, but today Andrew awaits her at a full table, a bowl of pomegranates occupying pride of place.

 

She’s barely sat down before she starts all but inhaling the bloody things.

 

\---

 

She refuses to weep the day every church bell in the realm rings to celebrate the queen’s second marriage.

 

The following day, she attends Mass, head held high. Even though the bitter old biddies – once the mean-spirited middle-aged women who used to gossip about “poor Lady Tarras’s little hoyden of a daughter” – whisper about her behind their missals, as they have every Sunday since she returned to Livingston House, and stare pointedly at her growing belly, she will not show or feel any shame.

 

\---

 

And yet, it seems the realm expects her and her family to feel nothing but shame, as most of their once-friends and allies avoid them like the plague.

 

One of the few who doesn’t distance himself after their precipitous fall from grace is John Gordon, the Marquis of Huntley, who’s been Andrew’s dearest friend nearly from the cradle and becomes their eyes and ears at court. It’s Lord Huntley who makes _very_ discreet inquiries into the matter that concerns her most: her children’s status after the annulment of her marriage, the question that has her replaying her final conversation with their father over and over again.

 

\---

 

_You have no right to tell me what I can or can’t do. We won’t be married for much longer, will we? So it’s my father who would have a say over my affairs but –_

 

_As I have a say over my daughter’s. You have no right to take her from me._

 

 _She is_ my _daughter. My bastard –_

 

_Don’t call her that!”_

_What? A bastard? That’s what she’ll be soon enough._

_She will remain legitimate. Did you think I’d consent to –_

 

 _You_ consented _to set me aside, why not my child?_

 

Our _child!_

 

\---

 

She assumes that he means that Tara would _be_ legitim _ized_ , that it was a slip of the tongue, but Lord Huntley speaks with a different Vatican representative, who says a child of a marriage such as hers could remain legitimate if born before its parents knew that their marriage was invalid.

 

Her second child, of course, will be born after the marriage was annulled. Tara, however . . .

 

\---

 

But Lord Huntley’s next letter proves to be a devastating disappointment.

 

 _When next we spoke, the old man said there was no way any child of your sister’s by the king could be recognized as legitimate_. _Even if he wished it, the Vatican would not risk the queen’s displeasure. I am sorry, my friend._

_I very vividly recall Lady Kenna as a girl. She was charming and reckless and a naughty little thing. Remember the laugh we had when she locked that maid who stole her pudding in the attic? We were all rather terrible back then, weren’t we?_

_But underneath the naughtiness, it was obvious that your sister had a heart of gold. I hope this will not shatter it. She deserves better, as do her little daughter and the coming child, and I sincerely wish I had better news to give you._

_My best regards to you both._

 

\---

 

The letter precedes Lord Huntley himself only by a few days. He is all that is gracious when he arrives at Livingston House and the house feels less gloomy than it has in a long time.

 

She also can’t help but notice that Lord Huntley is, if possible, even handsomer than last she saw him, when he came to offer his condolences upon Father’s death. But last she’d seen him she hadn’t had eyes for any other man save –

 

With his dark hair and piercing blue eyes, Lord Huntley has always been handsome. She’d fancied him as a girl, even idly fantasizing about becoming Lady Huntley a handful of times when her thoughts turned to the future, although she knew that her fate lay in France, with –

 

She shakes her head, bringing herself back to the present. It’s the baby, of course; her blood had run hotter than ever while she carried Tara and it’s been so long since she’s been around a man who’s neither her blood nor her servant that her reaction is perfectly natural.

 

\---

 

Just as they’re about to go in for dinner, they hear a very displeased childish voice from the next room.

 

“ _Nanny_ , I don’t want to have supper in the nursery. I always –”

 

“Your uncle has a _guest_ and children are meant to be seen and not heard – and not even seen, really, mind you! – when there is company, you stubborn girl!” Nanny Moira hisses loudly enough that they all hear the admonishment.

 

Kenna feels herself flush. Of all the times for Tara to have a tantrum –

 

But Lord Huntley only smiles. “If Lady Tara joins the adults when you dine _en famille_ , I won’t have her banished to the nursery on my account. Don’t stand on ceremony with me, not after all these years.”

 

But this is new to Lord Huntley; Callum had always had his supper in the nursery when he was Tara’s age and Tara had been too small to sit at the table with them before they’d left for court.

 

“Nanny Moira!” Andrew calls, breaking the awkwardness. “Our guest insists that my niece join us.” As Nanny Moira enters, looking displeased with her miscreant charge, Andrew throws Tara an indulgent wink.

 

Lord Huntley bows over her tiny hand with a grave “my lady.”

 

Tara beams and beams further still when Lord Huntley pulls out her chair for her and pushes it in when she’s seated. She’s thoroughly charmed, but Kenna tries not to be, because there’s no point, even as she smiles thankfully at him from across the table once he’s sat down.

 

It’s a pleasant change, to see Tara smile so.

 

\---

 

On their journey back from court, Tara nearly cries herself sick from missing the father who could not be bothered to see her off before they departed. After their return to Livingston House, she misses him desperately and her mother, her uncles, and her nanny are not enough to console her.

 

At first, Tara does not like the idea of being an older sister. She is a jealous child, used to having mother and father both to herself, to being the apple of Mama’s and Papa’s eye, and now she only has her mother, who she will have to share with a new sibling.

 

But eventually the place Papa occupied in Tara’s little heart is entirely given over to Baby, in no small part because Kenna cannot force herself to lie for him, cannot force herself to continue to nurture in her daughter’s heart love for and trust in the man that set them aside. She knows that would only lead to heartbreak for her little girl.

 

\---

 

Her son, when he arrives at last after costing her far more pain and blood than his sister, has no place in dynastic determinations. He is, nevertheless, most precious to her, her dear darling boy. She means to name him James for her father, but names him for King Charles instead. It’s her small rebellion after all that’s been taken from her, from his sister, from him while he was still in the womb.

 

Let the queen read into that what she will, if she ever learns of it.

 

\---

 

Kenna lies abed one day, still not having fully recovered her strength after her confinement, when she hears a commotion outside her bedchamber.

 

“I don’t care if it’s _treason_ ; I will bloody well _kill you_ if you don’t leave at once!”

 

 _Treason?_ No, it couldn’t be . . .

 

But then the door to her bedchamber slams open and it is. He’s half-dragging Andrew along, who’s got a death grip on him, yet clearly couldn’t keep him away entirely. He looks as disheveled as if he’d ridden all the way from Holyroodhouse, which would be an utterly mad thing to do. “How could you?” He sounds wounded.

 

How _dare_ he sound _wounded_ , how dare he make those sad eyes at her?

“I had to hear from the damned Vatican representative!” Oh and _how_ the king emerges.

 

“I’d be happy to explain, Your Majesty,” she says tartly, sitting up, and wishing desperately she’d had some warning so she could at least have brushed her hair and applied a bit of rouge. She hates that she looks anything but perfect in front of him. A put-together appearance has always been her armor.

 

He flinches.

 

She’s never met a man more uncomfortable with power and wonders, yet again, why he would want to wield it badly enough to be willing to discard her (and their daughter!) for it. He’d never been particularly ambitious, save when spurred by her. It must, as always, go back to –

 

She shakes herself internally and squares her shoulders. “You set me aside –”

 

“So you did it to punish me? As some form of childish payback?”

 

“I did it because the woman you set me aside for was my queen!”

 

“Mary understands –”

 

“Oh, I’m sure she does. She reacted so well to the existence of Jean.”

 

Jean was also conceived before her marriage to his father, when Francis had no hope of her. King or not, the man in front of her is a fool and trying to get him to see reason is obviously futile.

 

“My sister needs peace and quiet and you are _upsetting her_ ,” Andrew grits out, twisting the arm he’s still gripping, eliciting a groan.

 

She hears some movement in the hall.

 

“All is well, calm yourselves!” her former husband calls out toward the hall. “Guards,” he explains unnecessarily, voice strained.

 

“Ah yes, I can see why you might want guards when faced with my family. Andrew –”

 

Her brother looks eager, clearly assuming that she will demand he toss their king out on his ear.

 

But she knows better than that. “Please give us a moment.”

 

“Kenna –”

 

“Please. I will let you know when I need you.”

 

Andrew departs unhappily, releasing his former brother-in-law with perhaps unnecessary roughness.

 

“This is reckless of you, appearing at my brother’s home with no warning.”

 

“I know.”

 

“As you saw, he is angry. And no doubt the queen will be angry as well.”

 

“She knows where I am.”

 

“And she is _not_ angry?”

 

“No. Read for yourself.”

 

He hands her an envelope. The first sheet is a proclamation in a hand that she recognizes as the queen’s own.

 

_With the enclosed letters patent, I, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, in my own name and that of my husband and king, Sebastian Valois, do hereby make the following grants, along with the attendant estates, livings, and rents, to his natural children and their lady mother:_

_To Lord Charles Valois, the earldom of Erroll._

_To the Lady Tara Valois, the courtesy title of Mistress of Mar as heiress presumptive to the earldom of Mar._

_To the Lady Kenna Livingston, the earldom of Mar as countess_ suo jure _during her lifetime_.

 

Perhaps the queen (not Mary, never Mary now) is pregnant. The gesture – not only allowing her husband to recognize his _natural children_ , but also granting Kenna herself the earldom of Mar in her own right – speaks of security, of feeling safe enough to be generous.

 

But Kenna cannot bring herself to ask. Even if she did, there is no guarantee that her question would be answered honestly. It’s not as if _the king_ has given her reason to trust his word.

After all, her children will be _recognized_ , as their cousin Jean was, not legitimized. The children will have their father’s name and they will have lands, gold, and even titles granted by their stepmother, but they will not be _legitimate_. They will always be _lesser-than_ any children he has with his royal wife, and not just because the queen’s children will have her royal blood and royal titles.

 

“You promised me that Tara would remain legitimate. Do you remember? After I learned of the annulment.” She tosses the proclamation at him, even as she realizes that her behavior feels uncomfortably like the tantrums she heard Diane used to throw to get her way with Henry when being pliant and asking nothing of him failed her. “You promised!”

 

Thanks to Lord Huntley, she’d known it wasn’t to be, but it still infuriates her.

 

“It’s not – we can’t – I wanted to, truly I –”

 

She scoffs. “You know what it is to be a bastard and yet you leave your own children thus.”

 

“I am sorry.”

 

“Well, that makes things perfectly all right, I suppose.”

 

He swallows hard. “I know that it doesn’t. And believe me, I wish that I _could_ make them right.”

 

“Yes, kings are quite powerless, aren’t they?”

 

He does not answer. “I would like to see Tara. And the baby –”

 

“Tara is out with Nanny Moira and Charlie is asleep.”

 

“I can wait.”

 

“No, you cannot.”

 

“Please –”

 

 “Good _day_ , Your Majesty.”

 

“Kenna –”

 

“Andrew!”

 

It is the last time she sees the King of Scotland.


	4. the king of scots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are details of the marriage contract between the queen of Scotland and her consort to which few people were privy when it was initially signed.

After the king’s unannounced visit, contact from the crown is nearly non-existent. There are just brief missives written in an unfamiliar hand inquiring after the children’s health and accompanied by gold for their care and keeping – gold that is always returned with the messenger along with even briefer answering missives, no matter how much the messenger hems and haws and hesitates, fearing the king will take out his anger at them on him.

 

While she’ll accept titles and all that comes with them as her children’s due, she will not take anything else from the crown.

 

There are never invitations to court for her children, which relieves and angers her in equal measure.

 

\---

 

But John continues to visit after each time he goes to court, always keeping them up-to-date on what is going on. He never flinches from this self-imposed duty – he doesn’t even leave it to Andrew to break to her the most unpleasant news of all. “I don’t quite know how to say this, Kenna.” He pauses and gives her a look that feels uncomfortably like pity. “The latest rumor about court is that the queen is with child.”

 

“It was going to happen sometime,” she says. She thinks she should be commended for putting on an admirable show of indifference. “Thank you for telling me. I’m glad I heard it from you and not someone who’d relish the telling.”

 

Thanks to John, Kenna’s already had time to steel herself enough to remain publicly impassive when the church bells ring in celebration of the impending birth of the heir to the throne.

 

(It doesn’t mean that she doesn’t cry when she is alone that night.)

 

\---

 

There are details of the marriage contract between the queen of Scotland and her consort to which few people were privy when it was initially signed.

 

Like most of the realm, Kenna did not know that her former husband was granted the crown matrimonial – meaning he was granted the right to keep the Scottish throne should he outlive the queen and to pass the Scottish crown to his own heirs, the same condition that had caused so much controversy during the queen’s first marriage. But then the crown matrimonial provision becomes public knowledge when the queen dies in childbirth and the child – a boy – along with her, leaving her husband with a kingdom, no queen, and no heir.

 

Now she understands why _her_ children could not be legitimate. No doubt the queen did not want to allow for the possibility of Kenna’s children inheriting her throne should she predecease her husband without heirs of her own body.

 

\---

 

Although the king has shown himself to be just, it does not take long for Scotland to erupt in rebellion, the nobles – Protestants and even some Catholics – joining together against their foreign king.

 

Though she suspects her brother has Protestant sympathies and he has every reason to hate the king – the king set his sister aside and has been the most neglectful of fathers to his niece and nephew – he takes no part.

 

Kenna is grateful for Andrew’s restraint. She may hate her former husband for all of it, too, but that doesn’t mean she wishes him dead.

 

\---

 

Despite the danger swirling about them, at first, the Livingstons of Tarras think themselves safe from the war. The king is the father of Kenna’s children and Andrew has many friends among the rebels. Furthermore, the king’s indifference to the children of his first marriage is likely obvious to all, so of course neither side will care to harm them.

 

Nevertheless, Andrew increases the number of guards about the property and the great house immediately after a messenger arrives for him, whose message he does not share right away. “From court,” he explains later, after he’s sent the man on his way again and emerged from his study after consulting with the steward.

 

 _The king_ , she fills in silently.

 

“An offer – no, an order, I suppose – stating that royal guards would follow shortly and to make arrangements for them in our household to ensure the children’s safety. But I think it unwise to have king’s men about now and, if what I hear is true, he has precious few men to spare. Still, I think having additional protection can’t hurt, so I’ve arranged to secure guards of our own.”

 

It’s true that they can never be too careful, even if they know they are quite safe at Livingston House.

 

\---

 

Because Andrew has remained neutral in the rebellion, while John takes an active role, it is widely assumed that the Marquis of Huntley no longer has any loyalty to the Earl of Tarras or his family – which includes the bastards of their hated foreign king.

 

Nevertheless, if anyone knows the Livingstons, it’s John Gordon, who arrives at Livingston House and is immediately seized by their guards. He is a rebel and the guards are well-aware of it, as they are of every other associate of Andrew’s who might be a danger to them now, having been provided a description thereof.

 

The guards inspect John for weapons – finding only his sword, which they seize from him, even as he insists he is only there “with a message for the earl and his sister!”

 

Still, Andrew is distrustful at first – or so he seems.

 

Kenna suspects it is difficult for him to believe that John could mean to harm them, as it is for her, but when she looks where trust has gotten her in her life, she thinks twice.

 

And yet – they’ve had John tied to a chair and he isn’t even angry; he doesn’t demand that they set him loose and he needs no urging from them to begin speaking and tell them of the rebels’ plans for her children. “They mean to steal Tara and Charlie from their beds and demand that the king give up his crown for their lives. I was told because they thought I could access Livingston House without being suspected until it was too late.”

 

“How do we know this isn’t a trick?” Andrew asks.

 

“You don’t.”

 

But she does, somehow.

 

His next words are directed to her. “Get away at once. Let Andrew keep me as a hostage until he receives word that you’ve arrived safely at your destination, if need be.”

 

 _And what destination would that be?_ she wonders.

 

“I know he would kill me if something should happen to any of you.”

 

Andrew swallows hard. “I certainly hope it doesn’t come to that.”

 

“I’m here to make sure it doesn’t. But they must never know I was the one to warn you.”

 

“You were scouting the property and were spotted, but escaped before the guards could catch you,” Andrew improvises. “That would explain their departure – we feared for their safety upon sighting you – without causing you trouble amongst your comrades.”

 

“I will never be able to thank you enough,” she says to John.

 

“I don’t do this for your thanks. I –”

 

“I know. But still, I know what this could cost you and I – I –”

 

“Keep yourself and the children safe so that you can come home when it is all through and that will be thanks enough.”

 

She will owe John a debt of gratitude for her children’s lives until the end of her days. She shudders to think what might have happened without his warning (what still might happen if they don’t move quickly enough).

 

The king gave her and Tara up for a crown. Why would the substitution of another child for her be enough to make him give up that crown now?

 

\---

 

“Mama?” Tara yawns.

 

“We’re going to play a game,” Kenna tells Tara as cheerfully as she can. Thankfully Tara is too sleepy to question why they are playing a game in the middle of the night as Kenna brushes her hair into two pigtails like the little peasant girls wear.

 

Nanny Moira runs off to find clothes from the servants’ children while a trustworthy maid sews additional hidden pockets into the underclothes and the rough-spun dresses Kenna and Nanny Moira will wear on their journey. They will carry gold in those pockets, safe from prying eyes and hands, and daggers in case any unforeseen dangers should befall them.

 

\----

 

Lord Narcisse personally meets them at the docks.

 

She has never been so happy to see the man in all her life. She’d feared the message Lord Frederick sent to Lola might not have made it. There hadn’t been enough time to await her reply.

 

Lord Frederick maintains an epistolary relationship with his disowned sister (a relationship of which their parents had no knowledge) and, like John, he turned out to be another ally amongst the rebels. He’d arrived with John on his quest to warn them, but had been kept separately by their guards while she and Andrew spoke with John.

 

“Whatever our quarrels with the king, your niece and nephew are innocent. I don’t wish them to meet _my_ nephew’s fate, to be innocent pawns in this bloody chess game. His cousins, and they never knew each other,” he sighed when Andrew questioned him.

 

Still, it was one of Andrew’s men they sent with the note, and only after reading it over to ensure as best they could it was not written in some sort of code.

 

It terrifies her to put herself and her children in Narcisse’s clutches, but there is no other person in France powerful enough to stand up to the Bourbons, if it were to come down to that. Rumor has it that Charles lies dying while his heir is an ocean away fighting Scottish rebels, so she dared not take her children to court, if Catherine would even have had them there. And Diane . . . she has had no contact with Diane since the dissolution of her marriage.

 

\---

 

Lola insists that Kenna’s children call her aunt. “It’s not as if my own brother’s children ever will,” she says sadly when they are alone, after another hug, this one tighter than the one shared before the others. Poor Lola has lost so much: her family when Francis recognized their son – her brother’s letters notwithstanding – and their son to an assassin.

 

“I’ve no doubt that the Bourbons saw Jean as their greatest threat despite Bash being declared legitimate and next in line to the throne.” They knew his stepfather’s reputation for ambition, Charles’s sickliness, and that the declared heir was quite preoccupied in Scotland, and so must have been behind the killing, Lola insists. “Not that I wanted any of it for him, I saw the danger.” She is near tears by that point in her recitation and Kenna gathers her in her arms.

 

Jean _was_ the child of the previous king and thus would have had a better claim than his uncle – that king’s half-brother – had he been legitimized. No doubt Catherine, faced with the abstract possibility of her husband’s bastard succeeding her last living son now becoming very real, would have fought quite hard to have young Jean legitimized and placed ahead of his uncle if he’d lived.

 

Soon, unless Charles takes a turn for the better, her children will be in a similar position, endangered by the royal blood in their veins – _no, they already have been_ – and that makes her very, very afraid. She has no choice but to trust that Narcisse’s love for Lola is greater than his ambition now and she prays that she has not made a critical mistake.

 

And even if it isn’t . . . well, Narcisse would likely think a Catholic Valois – even a legitimized one –better than a Protestant Bourbon, particularly if the Bourbons killed Jean. Narcisse, for all his flaws and hunger for power, purports to wants a well-governed Catholic France. With Jean no longer a potential contender for the throne that Lola never wanted for him, Narcisse may not only not seek to rise up against the Valois, but also seek to ingratiate himself with the next Valois king if the time should ever come.

 

 _Not that he cares much for my children_ , she thinks angrily. He only sought to send guards the once.

 

Perhaps Narcisse thinks he will need to protect himself from the next king’s wrath for failing to prevent his nephew’s death if Charles dies.

 

But as long as Charles lives, Narcisse should worry more about Catherine, if truth be told. And even if Charles should die, Catherine – with her money and her connections to Rome – would make a formidable enemy.

 

“But we’ve trebled the security around the house,” Lola assures her, wiping away the last of her tears. “Stéphane tells them it is because of what happened to Jean. And I’ve said you are my cousin, bringing your children to escape the unrest in Scotland.”

 

\--

 

It is an uncomfortable period for her. Kenna is grateful for the safe haven Lola has offered them, for how indignant she is on their behalf. “I can’t believe them – Bash – and _Mary_ , how _could_ she,” she says, until Kenna says she prefers not to speak of it. But she loves Lola for that protectiveness, for everything.

 

And Kenna is pleased to see how her children brighten her friend’s life and make her smile – even if she often catches Lola looking at them closely, thoughtfully, as though hoping to see her son in his cousins’ faces – and how Nanny Moira’s cheek makes Lola laugh (and infuriates Narcisse). She smiles to see Lola reviewing courtly courtesies with Tara; Lola tells Tara that “when things are more settled, I’m sure you’ll go to court and meet your uncle the king.”

 

Kenna misses Greer then, who cannot know that she and her children are in France – Lord Castleroy is a known Protestant, after all. But Greer, well aware of her lack of title, was always the most proper of them all and would no doubt have delighted in imparting these lessons.

 

She is less certain that Lola’s attention to Charlie pleases her, no matter how much her dear boy enjoys Lola’s cuddles and kisses. She gently refuses Lola’s offers of clothes and other things that once belonged to Jean, although toys she allows Charlie to play with, because there was precious little room for anything frivolous in their hastily packed bags.

 

\---

 

Though Lola says Lord Narcisse genuinely cared for Jean, Kenna does not think Lola has fully forgiven him for Jean’s death. Perhaps it would be easier if they had another child to force them to speak with one another, but they don’t. It is just the two of them in their big, empty home on the vast estate Francis restored to Narcisse for saving Lola and Jean from a kidnapping attempt before he descended into madness.

 

Kenna wishes they did not need Narcisse’s protection. She hates to owe the man anything and is sure he resents having them in his home.

 

When he seeks her out alone, she is sure she is about to hear it from the man’s own mouth. What she gets is somewhat different.

 

“You and your children and their insufferable nanny have been welcomed into my home solely due to my love for my wife and my desire to please her after she has suffered so much. Remember that. If not for Lola, I would have happily handed your children off to the Scottish rebels or the Bourbons or whoever else wanted them.”

 

She cannot believe what she’s hearing, that he would admit it so openly. But even under that disbelief, part of her – the part that remembers that keeping her children alive is paramount – begins to plot how she can get them out of this place _at once_. She keeps her face impassive so as not to give herself away.

 

“Lola believes that the Bourbons are responsible for Jean’s death, but I think the assassin came from a very different source, from someone who stood to benefit more from his death than even the Bourbons.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Are you truly so naïve or do you only pretend for fear that I might still harm your children or allow harm to come to them? As I said before, Lola’s inexplicable devotion to you keeps them safe from me,” he drawls. “In fact, I say this to warn you, for her sake. Who had the most to gain from Jean’s death? Who would have had the most to lose if Jean had lived to see Charles dead? Whose position did Jean _most_ threaten with his mere existence?”

_I think . . . I think he was poisoned. No one bleeds like that from an ear infection. And I think Catherine did it._

_My God, there’s no way –_

_And I think she was right to do it._

_From what happened before we left, what’s been written to you these past months, and what I’ve been hearing from other sources, he was going the way of Henry, and the last thing we need – France needs – is another mad king on the throne. Catherine de Medici is many things – and many of them terrible – but she is most of all two things: a devoted mother and a frightfully sane woman. If she did it, it had to be done. Better a sane serpent as regent than a madman as king._

 

And better a man grown as heir to the throne than a child under Lord Narcisse’s thumb?

 

 _No._ Her blood freezes in her veins. “He would never – not Francis’s child, his own nephew – he never wanted to be king –”

 

Yet he gave her up, gave Tara up, for a crown. Why not dispose of the child of the brother who turned his back on him in hopes of gaining another? Is _that_ the sort of man the father of her children has become? Is he now another Henry, who once nearly killed him for threatening his grand plans to unite England, Scotland, and France? Her former husband has been indifferent to her children – that much is true – but she never feared that he could pose a threat to them . . .

 

_My God._

Her horror must show on her face because Narcisse shakes his head at her, looking almost as though he might pity her.

\---

And then everything changes.

_The king is dead, long live the king!_


	5. le roi de france

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Charles’s death, Catherine de Medici outlives her sons and her usefulness.

The morning they finally depart, Lord Narcisse’s gaze is as inscrutable as ever as they say their goodbyes.

 

“Goodbye, Lord Narcisse,” Tara says politely. “Thank you for having us. It was very nice staying with you and Aunt Lola.”

 

“My pleasure, my lady.” His tone is serious and the irony that often lurks in his eyes and voice are quite absent.

 

Whatever else she feels towards the man, Kenna is grateful. “Yes. Thank you, truly.”

 

 _Her_ thanks Lord Narcisse doesn’t accept as graciously. “Don’t thank me. Thank Lola.”

 

“Dear Kenna, be careful. Be well. Be _safe_ ,” Lola insists, embracing her tightly.

 

“I’ll do my very best,” Kenna promises. “Thank –”

 

“Don’t thank me. You are my friend, like a sister, and you will always have my help, whenever you need me. Remember that.” Lola squeezes her hands and then gathers Tara and Charlie close, kissing them each on the forehead in turn. “God bless you and keep you, my loves.”

 

“Will you visit us, Aunt Lola?” Tara asks hopefully after Lola hands Charlie over into Nanny Moira’s waiting arms.

 

Charlie calls “Lola no” from his nanny’s arms and looks quite put out – Lola doted on him to a degree that sometimes made Kenna uncomfortable – but Lola’s attention is for Tara now.

 

Lola’s reply is evasive. “I hope we’ll see each other again soon.”

 

Finally, there is no more time to tarry and they ascend the carriage, the children waving to Lola as the carriage begins to move.

 

Lola, in turn, waves them off from Lord Narcisse’s side until she is only a speck in the distance.

 

But Kenna is too preoccupied thinking of everything that’s changed to watch for her for long.

\---

With Charles’s death, Catherine de Medici officially outlives her sons and her usefulness. Word of her death reaches them not long after Kenna receives word from her brother that the king of Scotland has decided to treat with his nobles.

 

The king’s ensuing decision to abdicate in favor of their late queen’s Protestant half-brother James, Earl of Moray, undoes all of Catherine’s efforts in the name of the Franco-Scottish alliance and of Catholic dominance in Europe. She is probably rolling in her grave.

 

The only condition of note upon the abdication is that a marriage between a prince or princess of Scotland and a princess or prince of France will be arranged to secure a new alliance. The new king of France must mean to remarry in short order. Rumor has it that with Scottish matters of state resolved, he will come home at last.

 

She allows herself a moment’s relief, grateful that things have been settled as peacefully as possible, that all is now well in Scotland, that it is safe for them to return home.

 

\---

 

But that relief is cut short when, all too soon (in truth, anything sooner than never would have been too soon), a summons arrives from the new king, bearing the royal seal.

 

Officially, it is an invitation, but she served a queen long enough to know better. Only two sentences long, it is no form letter. It is not the familiar spindly scrawl she hasn’t seen in years, but she would swear she’s seen it before. _Now that the kingdom is stable and it is safe to travel, I hope to see the children shortly. There are rooms awaiting you at Fontainebleau._

 

It’s the command of a king wrapped in the request of a father and she knows she has no choice but to obey.

 

\---

 

When they enter the throne room for their official welcome to court, the Prince of Condé – as suave and handsome as she remembers him – is the first to approach, bowing smoothly over her hand before kissing it. “It’s been too long, my lady. It is a pleasure to see you looking so well. And your daughter.”

 

 _Your_ king’s _daughter, too_ , Kenna is tempted to remind him, but to do so would only raise questions, so she doesn’t. “We _are_ well, and I thank you for your welcome.”

 

He takes a knee before Tara so that they are nearly eye-to-eye. “I am your Uncle Louis and it’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

 

It is true that he is her uncle by marriage. Kenna’s overly venomous feelings toward Condé recede just a bit, because his behavior strikes her as that of the sort of man who takes a genuine interest in children, who does not treat them with condescension, the sort of man who _ought_ to be a father.

 

Actually, it rather reminds her of John, she realizes when Condé presses a courtly kiss to Tara’s small hand. “Did you have a pleasant voyage?” he asks seriously afterward.

 

She suddenly feels sorry for him for being married to a woman like Claude. If Claude’s womb is half as poisonous as her personality, she will never give him – or any of her lovers – a child.

 

“Yes, thank you,” Tara says uncertainly before tacking on a “my lord” for good measure.

 

“Your Highness,” Kenna corrects gently.

 

“I’m glad. And just uncle will do,” Condé insists, favoring Tara with a wide smile before standing again. “You do your mother great credit.”

 

Tara is already a little lady and so precious with it that her grandmother, if she lived, would beam with pride to see her. “Thank you . . . Uncle,” she finishes shyly.

 

While Kenna has always loved the fine things that come with being a lady, she doesn’t, even as a woman grown, possess half the refinement her little daughter already seems to have inherited from her grandmother. Mother, though she was born untitled like Greer, was, like Greer, every inch a lady. So it’s not surprising that _she_ is hardly gracious in her reply. “And the king?”

 

“He is fortunate to have such a lovely daughter.”

 

“The king has heard his people’s grievances this day,” an unfamiliar privy councilor, recognizable only by his chain of office, declares, signaling the end of the public audience.

 

The peasants and others who brought complaints before the king slowly disperse, leaving only courtiers behind. It’s their time with their king now.

 

\---

 

Upon catching her first glimpse of him in so long, Kenna forgets herself for a moment.

 

He’s changed. There’s the crown of course, but it’s mostly that he seems so . . . polished now. Even in Scotland, after he became the Earl of Mar and the queen’s most trusted councilor, there remained some wildness to him. He hated frippery – he dressed well, because Kenna made certain of it, but simply, as he forbade her to add anything fussy to his wardrobe. There’s some fuss to his attire now, likely his mother’s mark to remind one and all of his station, unless he has a Diane of his own now that his wife is dead. She shakes that thought aside.

 

His fringe no longer falls over his forehead, untamed; his hair is shorter now, as when she first arrived at French court, though dark as ever. Not that that should surprise her. After all, he’s not yet thirty.

 

But as she comes closer, she notes the new, faint lines on his face – the same sort of worry lines his late queen had about her eyes and mouth when she first returned to Scotland, the same sort of worry lines Kenna is convinced she sees in her own mirror every morning. His forehead is no longer quite as smooth as it used to be beneath his messy hair and his eyes are lit with something she doesn’t recognize.     

 

She is so distracted in taking the measure of the man she used to be married to that it’s Tara who must save her from embarrassing herself after they are announced.

 

“Your Majesty,” Tara says precisely, with an equally precise curtsey. Tara has had her courtesies drilled into her by her “aunt” during their time together, who would surely watch Tara as proudly as if she were her own child – 

 

Kenna follows suit. When she looks up, she sees no pleasure in her former husband’s gaze – his eyes are utterly inscrutable, as if a curtain has fallen over them.

 

He stares for a beat too long before speaking. “Welcome to court,” he says curtly without rising from his throne, his fingers curled so tightly about the arms of it that they are quite bloodless.

 

She waits for a beat too long to rise from her curtsey until she realizes that that is all, that there will be no embrace for Tara, as one would expect of a father reunited with a daughter he has not seen in years, and certainly nothing else.

 

Unbelievably, _that is all._

 

\---

 

Tara is unhappy that Charlie was left behind with Nanny Moira when they presented themselves to the king. She dotes on her brother and clearly does not like being separated from him in this strange new place. She covers his round little cheeks with kisses when they return to Kenna’s suite.

 

Poor Charlie fruitlessly attempts to squirm away.  He’s still not fully awake from his nap and quite grumpy with his sleepiness. “Tara, _nooooo_ ,” he whines. Charlie learned to speak later than Tara and he is taciturn still. _No_ is his favorite word of late.

 

Kenna can hardly blame him for that. _No_ is a very useful word and quite effective, especially for one who doesn’t particularly relish using his words. She supposes he takes after his father that way.

 

Although she doubts that Charlie’s absence is the only reason for Tara’s unhappiness, Tara seems quite intent in her focus on her brother and Kenna will not press her, not yet.

 

\---

 

Kenna’s rooms are very fine. Though everything seems new, untouched, they strike her as very familiar somehow. But she can find no pleasure in them.

 

She is so very glad her daughter was prepared for a king and not a father. But even by that standard, she is so disappointed, so angry that she can hardly stand it.

 

\---

 

“Tara –” Kenna begins when Nanny Moira and Charlie have dropped off to sleep in the carriage after they depart from Lola’s estate.

 

Tara yawns. “Yes, Mama?”

 

“I know you’re tired, but I need to speak with you about what things will be like at court. You haven’t seen your father in a very long time now, and it will be different than before –”

 

“Because he’s the king and I’m a bastard,” Tara finishes for her matter-of-factly. “I know, Mama.”

 

That her young daughter could say that so easily breaks her heart.

 

\---

 

“That’s not your name,” Tara points out one day, spying an envelope from court – an envelope that is sent on behalf of her father, containing another indifferent note asking after his daughter’s health. It’s addressed to _Lady Kenna Livingston_.

 

Kenna feels her heart clench. She hasn’t explained the distinction between _Lady Kenna_ and _Lady Mar_ or her reversion to the former. Somehow along the way, she’d also forgotten to tell ( _no, be honest, you coward_ , avoided telling) her daughter that she no longer has a right to her father’s name – a different name now, anyway – or the courtesy title that came with it and that her new sibling never will.

 

Tara is still awaiting her reply.

 

“Darling, I – There are some things I need to explain to you. Your father and I – we – we’re not married anymore. That means I went back to the same name I had before I was married. That’s why everyone calls me Lady Kenna again, like they used to before, and you –” She forces herself to continue, to get all the bad news out at once, “You aren’t to be called a lady anymore,” their household’s willful continued use of the style notwithstanding.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because –” She hates, hates, _hates_ having to explain these things to her daughter, that her daughter is living this. “Children can only get titles from their fathers and only if they are married to their mother. Say how I’m a lady because my father – your grandfather – was an earl and he was married to my mother. But because your father and I aren’t married anymore, you can’t have a title from him, or his name.”

 

There are exceptions, of course, but they’re of no use to them and not worth mentioning.

 

“Now you have mine instead, which is Livingston,” she concludes, tapping the envelope with a finger.

 

\---

 

The first time Tara hears herself referred to as a bastard is not long after that, just before the royal wedding.

 

“Mama, what’s a bastard?”

 

Her stomach drops. “I – why – where did you hear that?”

 

“Bessie said that even though I’m a bastard, it isn’t right that I wasn’t invited to the royal wedding. What’s a bastard? Why didn’t Aunt Mary invite us to her wedding?”

 

 _Aunt Mary_. Damn _Aunt Mary_ to hell. “Darling, it’s . . . complicated. Do you remember when I told you that you that your father and I were no longer married and that’s why our names are different now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“A bastard is . . . a child whose father isn’t married to his or her mother.”

 

“Oh. But what does that have to do with Aunt Mary’s wedding?”

 

“ _Queen_ Mary –” Kenna begins emphatically. “Is marrying your father. I suppose they thought it would make us sad to be there, since I used to be married to him.”

 

Tara seems to understand that much at least. “Why is Papa marrying Queen Mary when he has us?”

 

 _I don’t know. I don’t_ know, _not really_. She wants to cry, as she hasn’t since Andrew agreed to let her stay, but Tara needs her to be strong. _And so does this baby_ , she reminds herself, stroking the swell of her belly. She takes a deep breath. “For . . . Scotland and France. Because countries need alliances to be stronger –”

 

“What’s –”

 

“It means when countries agree to help each other and work together. And when countries make alliances, the queen or king of one country may have to marry the prince or princess of the other country.”

 

“And Queen Mary is the queen of Scotland. But what about –”

 

“Your father was made a prince of France before we came home.”

 

“Oh,” Tara says.

 

It is the last thing Tara says for hours after, her tired little head resting against her mother’s swollen middle, as Kenna holds her close and runs sure, soothing fingers through her dark hair, wishing she had someone to do the same for her.

 

\---

 

“Aunt Lola told me I have to be very proper at court. I have to curtsey and say _Your Majesty_ until Papa gives me leave –”

 

It’s jarring to hear Tara speak of him as _Papa_ ; he is mentioned so rarely amongst their family and it’s usually Kenna who does the mentioning and always he is _your father_ or _the king_. ( _You’ll have to write a note to thank your father and the queen for your Christmas gifts; Nanny Moira will help you._ )

 

Perhaps _Papa_ is overfamiliar now, though she has no idea what he called Henry when he was a boy. Naturally, when he was grown, Henry was _Father_ to him; later _the king_ or even _Henry_. She’ll have to see what’s expected when they arrive, but there is no use speculating. “That’s right, darling,” Kenna says, grateful yet again to dear Lola.

 

\---

 

Children would usually be sent to the nursery, but hers have been given rooms adjoining her own. Even that is not close enough for her. French court – their father’s court – is new to her babies, so after a quiet supper, just the three of them and Nanny Moira, they will sleep with their mother tonight.

 

 _Bidh Clann Ulaidh, laoigh 's a lurain_  
_Bidh Clann Ulaidh air do bhanais_  
_Bidh Clann Ulaidh, laoigh 's a lurain_  
_Dèanamh an danns' air do bhanais . . ._

Tara has always loved this lullaby, and so Kenna has never been able to deny her it, but Kenna’s never sung it the same way since the royal marriage, always leaving out the chorus – the chorus of all things, because it says _Bidh Clann a' Righ air do bhanais_ (“the King's children will be at your wedding”) and she couldn’t deny Tara the song in its entirety.

 

But Tara knew what the words meant, of course, and asked why she’d cut them out.

 

 _Because your father is the king now, so it’s silly to say that, you know. Of course you’ll be at your own wedding and Charlie will, too._ What she really meant was _I don’t want to think about the other children your father will have with the queen. I won’t be able to bear it._ _But it’s not certain they’d be at your wedding anyway, because look how neglectful he is now . . ._

 

\---

A young maid – a scared little mouse of a maid, really – rouses her from sleep that night, ever-so-gently.

 

“What’s the matter?” Kenna asks, sitting up at once, careful not to wake the children, who fell asleep on either side of her after she sang to them. They are clearly well, breathing evenly and looking so peaceful that she is instantly calmer.

 

“The king is here to see you, milady.”

It’s late. She can’t be certain what time it is, but it’s well after supper, probably after most people are abed.

 

He was so very coldly formal in the throne room. Yet now –

 

She should have known why he really wanted her to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as a rule from here on out, I’m going with a consistent manner of styles of my choosing, even if it’s not precisely what’s used on Reign, since they seem to have a bit of a mish-mash (they call Mary [Your] Grace, Henry [His] Royal Highness, and Catherine [Her] Majesty in the pilot, even though they’re all monarchs). Here, I’ll use the following: Your/His/Her Grace for a duke/duchess (with the exception of Bash earlier in the story and that’s only because he was permitted to style himself as a prince, hence His Highness), Your/His/Her Highness for a prince/princess, and Your/His/Her Majesty for a king/queen. 
> 
> "Bidh Clann Ulaidh" does not belong to me; you can see the full lyrics and listen to it here: http://www.educationscotland.gov.uk/scotlandssongs/about/songs/lullabiesdandlings/index.asp


	6. madame la duchesse d'anjou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had not known what to expect but this was certainly not it.

He enters her bedchamber then, a soft, pleading look in his eyes, as she rises to her feet. “Kenna.”

 

When he kisses her, she does not resist. She was his wife, loved him for years, bore him two children, l –

 

She had not known what to expect but this was certainly not it – at least not until just now, when the maid announced him, when an awful suspicion came upon her all at once.

_In fact, she would allow me to keep you at my side –_

_In your bed, as your mistress._

_Don’t –_

_I won’t be your wife anymore. According to Rome, I never truly was. If I warmed your bed, I’d be your mistress. It’s that simple._

 

He – he must think that years and the death of his queen will weaken her resolve. He thinks she will be his Diane and he her Henry.

 

She hates him for it, savagely, for his indifferent welcome, for everything he’s done to her and her children ( _her children!_ ), and pushes him away with a slap. But as she flexes her stinging hand afterwards, she realizes she’s forgotten herself again.

 

This man is not her husband or her lover. He is the father of her children, but he is her king first. He could have her head on a platter, quite literally, if he wished it.

 

Well, not _her_ king, not anymore. He abdicated the throne of Scotland, but he is _a_ king and King James would not come to her defense should harm befall her at the king of France’s hand.

 

Why is she thinking about such ridiculous things right now?

 

But he doesn’t berate her or threaten her. He rubs at his cheek silently, the same look in his eyes now as in the throne room this afternoon, the look she couldn’t decipher before.

 

She finally recognizes it for what it is.

 

His heart is in his eyes and it is broken.

 

It should be a balm to her, that look, because it might answer a question that plagued her long after she vowed to herself she did not care what the answer was. _Did he ever really love me?_

Perhaps he really did, but does it really matter? Because even so, there would remain another question: _did he always love her more?_ And so many other questions besides.

 

But it matters not; they are both lost to him now.

 

He will get over it easily enough when he is wed again, when he has a beautiful younger woman in his bed, another _royal_ woman like his late wife, this one perhaps even a virgin who will give him royal children. He’s only just a bit adrift right now, a widower newly crowned king of the country he’s spent years away from.

 

He will forget her again, as he did before. After all, he broke her heart and cared not a whit.

 

She must do the same, she reminds herself. She will return to Scotland with the children and to their life there after a brief, dutiful stay here and forget him again.

 

“I’m sorry.” He leaves without another word.

 

\---

 

“My lady, you’ve gotten a note.”

 

“And what does it say?” she asks distractedly, her focus on her own face in the mirror as she prepares for the day. It’s better to focus on that than on the events of the previous night.

 

“My Lady the King’s Mother would like you to break your fast with her.”

 

It is a summons and she recognizes it as such, written in the same flowing, delicate hand that recalled her to court.

 

Diane was never a queen, so she cannot be called Queen Mother, but she is now treated with the same deference and called _My Lady the King’s Mother_ , as Henry VII’s mother was in England. As Diane has also been granted a duchy, she could be known as _Your Grace_ , but a duchess who is mother to the king must come before all other duchesses, no matter how old and august their titles, so it is her title as royal mother that takes precedence.

 

Diane ruled as regent in her son’s name between the time of Catherine’s death and his flight from Scotland to his own court. It was a brief, turbulent period during which, ironically, Diane is said to have retained power thanks primarily to the French Protestant lords whose fealty had been won by the new-struck alliance with the Protestant King James and the ensuing possibility of an enduring peace with the Protestant queen of England.

 

Their ranks included none other than Lord Castleroy, which Kenna hopes means Greer will have a place at court again. The Castleroys had been dismissed sometime after her own banishment.

 

Now things seem strangely peaceful, with the Protestants accepting their new Catholic king and the Catholics declining to stir up trouble. She worries that won’t last long, not once Narcisse, who is so suspicious of Bash, tires of rusticating in the country. After all, he brought such trouble with him the last time he appeared at court after a new king’s acsession to the throne.

 

\---

 

Diane looks younger than her years still, but she lacks the triumphant look that Kenna would have expected from her former rival and mother-in-law. “Leave us, please,” Diane commands her maid after she has escorted Kenna in.

 

“Yes, my lady.”

 

“Kenna.”

 

Kenna sketches a curtsy, although the thought of bowing to Diane leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. “My –”

 

Diane interrupts with a wave of her hand, in that same languorous way she’s always had. “Sit, eat your fill.”

 

She sits and helps herself to one of the delicate lattice-work apple tarts she always loved – they must have retained Catherine’s pastry chefs even now that she is dead – but she does not take a single bite.

 

“It isn’t poisoned.”

 

Kenna dares not move a muscle.

 

“I can hardly blame you for suspecting me. But did you know I had an opportunity to do so once? Before Henry forced our son to wed you, before Bash ever loved you? Catherine gave me the bottle after you told her about my plans to have him legitimized and even then I couldn’t do it.”

 

A shiver runs through her at the casual way Diane admits this, but she supposes it is meant, in a strange way, to set her at ease. It means _I am not your enemy_.

 

“And now . . . you are the mother of my son’s children. Speaking of the children, I saw that you brought only Tara yesterday. There was no moment for me to greet her; you left quite abruptly.”

 

She’d pled exhaustion from their voyage nearly as soon as she’d risen from her curtsey, not wanting to subject herself or her daughter to meaningless conversation with any of the courtiers who had just seen how coldly they’d been received by the king.

 

“We were quite exhausted from our voyage; she was half-asleep the moment we returned to our rooms,” Kenna lies. “As for Charlie, he remained in our rooms with their nanny. A boy of two is too young for formal presentations before the court, don’t you think?”

 

“Of course. May I . . . see him?” There is . . . something in Diane’s eyes.

 

 _Suspicion, perhaps?_ Even Kenna can admit that the timing of her second pregnancy might seem very convenient. Diane has never laid eyes on Charlie – but then, his father hadn't until last night either. “Certainly.”

 

“And Tara?” Diane adds, the faintest note of hope in her voice. Diane knows her only by letters, letters that of course stopped coming once Kenna left Scottish court with her.

 

“As well, if you wish.”

 

Diane summons a servant so she may send word to Nanny Moira, who appears promptly with her spotless charges.

 

Charlie is immediately handed off to Kenna, to sit beside her. He is a quieter child than Tara ever was at his age – unless, of course, he is grumpy, but he seems quite content now.

 

Head dipped respectfully, Tara begins a curtsey, causing her curls to fall into her face. Their reception yesterday likely made her especially aware of her place at court. “My –”

 

“Stop,” Diane interrupts sharply. “You are the daughter of a king and you will not bow before anyone, ever.”

 

Poor Tara is clearly startled.

 

Kenna wishes she could slap her former mother-in-law for it, but she can’t, and she knows it’s an irrationally strong reaction besides, so she contents herself with making an interruption of her own. She can’t have Diane confusing Tara. But because Diane is now treated with the greatest deference as the king’s mother, she turns her correction into a question. “I beg your pardon, but she must curtsey before the king, no? As she did yesterday,” she adds pointedly.

 

“Neither Bash nor any of Henry’s other children treated him so, nor is Bash that sort of father either.”

 

 _He’s hardly any sort of father._ She has to bite her tongue to hold back the retort.

 

“It’s what is done upon first arriving at court, but she will not be doing it again. Ever again.”

 

Diane is filling Tara’s head with misinformation – Tara _will_ have to do it again, she is certain – and Kenna is furious anew.

 

Diane was present yesterday; did she not see how indifferent her son was to his own daughter? Is she so blinded by motherly affection? Or merely stubborn? Is it a remnant of the woman who was first in a king’s heart, but always second in status to his wife and had to share him with other lovers besides, whose child was always seen as lesser than those born of his father’s marriage? Does she wish to instill in her bastard granddaughter the pride her bastard son never felt?

 

That sort of pride can be very dangerous.

 

“Do you understand, Tara?”

 

“Yes, my lady.”

 

“Not my lady. You are my granddaughter, so you will call me Grandmother. I know that you don’t know me yet, but we will fix that,” Diane promises in a softer tone, patting Tara’s cheek before inviting her to sit beside her. “Are your rooms to your liking?” Diane asks, placing a lattice-work biscuit on Tara’s plate.

 

Tara nods, then eagerly tucks in without otherwise answering, smearing powdered sugar on her face, much to Kenna’s consternation.

 

But she knows better than to bother until her daughter is done with the treat. Powdered sugar is so terribly _messy_ that there’s no point.

 

“Your father has much to concern himself with, important matters of the kingdom, but he chose every hanging, all the furniture, every last thing. I advised him, of course, but he made the final selections himself.”

 

 _Likely_ , Kenna scoffs mentally. It is a good thing Diane is too busy with Tara to look at her, for her disbelief must show on her face.

 

When Diane lifts her gaze from the teapot to Tara, she takes the mess in stride, a smile playing at the corner of her lips as she uses her own handkerchief to wipe Tara’s face. It reminds Kenna that Diane, for all her sophistication, is likely used to grubby children, her only child being a son who has loved riding and the outdoors since he could walk.

 

“It’s all very fine” – a half moment’s pause and a shyness in her tone as she continues – “Grandmother, and very kind of His Majesty –”

 

“ _Father_.”

 

Tara never called him _Father_ before; he was always _Papa_. But he is a king now and she is his bastard. It seems even Diane realizes there are limits.

“He is your father, sweet girl.”

 

“It’s very kind of him,” Tara repeats, still obviously uncomfortable.

 

Diane looks as though she means to say something else, but she presses her lips together and silently opens her arms for Charlie. “May I?”

 

Although Charlie does not like being held save by Kenna or Nanny Moira, he doesn’t fuss or struggle. His wide, bright eyes – so like his father’s – are fixed on his grandmother with the greatest curiosity. 

 

“I am so pleased to have them close from now on,” Diane says, both her words and the hand she runs over Charlie’s head uncharacteristically gentle.

 

Charlie remains silent, transfixed by her. It’s rather unnerving.

 

 _From now on?_ “I beg your pardon?”

 

“That they will be here with us.”

 

Tara looks at her with undisguised horror and now Kenna wants to throttle Diane. “I certainly don’t know where you got that idea.”

 

“Well, Bash said –”

 

“Whatever he said, he’s failed to discuss it with me. This is only a visit.”

 

“Did you think he handed you a French duchy so you could run back off to Scotland with his children at your pleasure?”

 

“What duchy?”

 

“Oh, he hasn’t told you?”

 

Kenna has to exercise a great deal of self-restraint not to roll her eyes. _If he had, I wouldn’t be asking_ you _, would I?_

 

“Why Anjou, of course.”

 

 _The title I was expecting was the_   _Duke of Anjou, with a château in Anjou_ , _with_ _a_   _suite of rooms in Anjou_.

 

And there is the triumphant look she expected, the Diane she expected, the Diane she knows and remembers so well.

 

Kenna knows she isn’t imagining the faint mocking note in Diane’s words. She wonders what becoming _Madame la duchesse_ , at long last, will cost her.

 

\---

 

“My –” The maid’s words die in her throat.

 

There is no time for Kenna’s uninvited guest, who’s barreled in out of nowhere, to be announced.

 

After breaking her fast with Diane and her admittedly intemperate reaction to the news Diane dropped so casually, she should be less surprised at the rude interruption to her luncheon than she is. But she’s been too preoccupied deciding how she will deal with the unexpected gift of a duchy and trying to determine what strings are attached. Mostly, she is grateful that the children have already finished their meal and been taken to their rooms to rest when it occurs. 


	7. bash and kenna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since she left Holyrood, the singular purpose of her life has been keeping her children safe. 
> 
> But now everything has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Reign does not belong to me, nor do specific lines from episodes in flashbacks.

She gives her situation a great deal of thought after breakfast with Diane and through her luncheon.

 

Since she left Holyrood, the singular purpose of her life has been keeping her children safe.

 

But now everything has changed.

 

She will have to spend more time at court before she is certain and perhaps visit with Greer, who will surely be honest with her when it comes to the state of things beyond the walls of the castle, but things seem as safe as they can be, like her children will now be as safe as any kings’ bastards could ever expect to be. She will also have to ask what their place is now, but she is hesitant, because she does not know how she would restrain herself from flying at their father in a rage if their place is meant to be anything less than Jean’s once was.

 

But perhaps now, before anything is finalized, is the time to take a moment to think of herself and to establish her expectations for her future in France.

 

Though in some ways it would be easiest to remain unattached – she is now Duchess of Anjou and there is no woman as free as an unmarried woman of fortune – she does not wish to spend the rest of her life alone.

 

She could take lovers. But court is such a small place and gossip spreads quickly; she cannot shame her children that way. Things are difficult enough for bastards, even kings’ bastards. She wants them to be able to hold their heads high.

 

So a noble husband. She doesn’t expect grand passion anymore and she believes love may be lost to her forever, but she also cannot bear to share her life with a man she cannot respect or care for. She wants a kind man, a good man – perhaps a man like Greer’s beloved Pepperpot. Such a man might even help her protect her children and their interests when, inevitably, legitimate royal siblings arrive, half-siblings whose mother might view them as a threat, who might despise them like Catherine did their father.

 

Then her thoughts turn to – _no_ , she tells herself firmly. _That is impossible now._

 

And then, perhaps mercifully, her thoughts are interrupted by a most determined invader.

 

\---

 

Bash is hardly regal, looking more stable hand than king – it’s the first time she thinks of him as anyone but _the king_ in years and it startles her – even as he high-handedly commands the servants assigned to her to leave them at once.

 

She’s barely risen from her place at the head of the otherwise empty table before he launches into a tirade.

 

“What do you mean, this is a _visit_? You can’t seriously intend to take the children back to Scotland!”

 

How _dare_ he come in and shout at her like this?

 

“That’s precisely what I intend to do,” she snaps before she can stop herself. “Scotland is their home.”

 

“And what of their father?”

 

“The father they barely know? The father who greets them so indifferently?” she sneers, blood boiling as she turns her back to him and moves toward the door.

 

“Their father who is king and didn’t give you permission to leave!”

 

 _Permission to leave France or permission to leave the room?_ She realizes that she was, absurdly, about to leave her own suite to escape him.

 

And here she wondered if he’d ever throw his new – _not so new_ –status in her face. Diane seems to think he isn’t the sort, but motherly love can blind one to many things.

 

Ever so slowly, she turns back around. “Pardon me, _Your Majesty_ , but you’re not my king. James Stuart is my king. And I will be removing myself and my children from _your_ court in short order.”

 

“You’ll do no such thing!”

 

“You’ve no right to order me about. I’m not your subject!”

 

His eyes glint. “You may not be, but the children –”

 

He will not take her children. She will not allow it. “You _bastard_.”

 

“Didn’t you hear I was legitimized years ago?” he retorts.

 

She wants to hit him again, but she fears this king is not the same man he was even the night before, the one who let her slap him when he stole a kiss she did not wish to give. And suddenly she is weary and wary and perhaps dangerously, inexplicably honest. “You know I could never leave them.” And so she knows – knew long before he appeared so dramatically, loath though she is to admit it even to herself – that she will never be able to leave unless he wills it.

 

His shoulders slump, the tension draining from them. “I never said you had to. You’ve lands and a title of your own here now, even better than what you’ve left behind in Scotland. I made sure of it. I’m _certain_ of it – they were mine before they were yours, after all.”

 

She cannot thank him for it, because the sinking, sickening suspicion that plagued her last night returns and she fears that she knows what he expects in return.

 

Does he mean for her to stay on as his lover while he’s married to another, as he wanted her to do in Scotland? Here where she has no brother whose home she can decamp to, who would shelter her, allowing her to save face and avoid the double humiliation of being cast aside as wife and taken up as mistress?

 

She must make clear that she will not have it. “So I would in the same position Lola was?”

 

He tilts his head, confused.

 

“Alone because people _think_ –,” she puts a decided emphasis on the word, “– me your mistress and do not wish to bring your wrath upon their heads?”

 

“No, of course not,” he continues.

 

It is such a bare, insufficient answer that she goads him with the same demand she once made of his father. “Then you would arrange a marriage for me? One to a man of title and wealth?”

 

Something flickers in his eyes, something hard and steely that makes her fear she is pushing too far. “Not that you would need it –”

 

She interrupts. “I refuse to be alone for the rest of my days. I’m tired of being alone.”

 

“You could marry a peasant and be well-provided for, but yes. Yes, you will have a man of title and wealth. I certainly don’t expect you to remain alone.”

 

Something catches in her throat at how utterly indifferent he seems. This is what she wants, but she spent so long loving him and hurting with it that she wanted him to hurt now at least a fraction as much as she did then. It seems, however, that her former husband is destined to be an eternal disappointment to her. Yet she merely nods, keeping her disappointment to herself. “And this man would allow me to remain at court with the children?”

 

“Yes.”

 

That settled, she must express her remaining concern. “But how do I know you’ll actually keep your promise?” she presses. “Your father promised me a wealthy, titled man and gave me his bastard son with no land or money to his name and a made-up title.”

 

“I assure you, king of France is no made-up title.”

 

She scoffs. “You weren’t always.”

 

He raises an eyebrow at her. “But I am now.”

 

He cannot mean what she thinks he means. It is _mad_. She is no Catherine de Medici, with money enough to make up for the fact that she is merely noble, not royal. She shakes her head. The last time she gave in to such flights of fancy, she was Countess of Mar, imagined herself Duchess of Anjou, and instead found herself stripped of both title and husband – only one of which was eventually restored to her. “No.”

 

Disbelief is reflected back at her in his features. “You would deny yourself the chance to be queen? You always wanted –”

 

It wasn’t a refusal _per se_ ; rather, it was an expression of disbelief, but she won’t have her head turned by the lure of a crown. “I want safety and stability and _honesty_ and I would know a fantasy for what it is. I would know it’s a promise that the man who set me aside for a queen and a throne will never keep.”

 

“That’s not why –”

 

“Then for love? After years of marriage, after a child, you still loved Mary better?”

 

His eyes flash furiously. “No!”

 

“Then why? You claimed to want none of it, you said before you only sought to take your brother’s place with her to save his life –”

 

“And then we acted to save yours!” The anger and indignation in his eyes disappear as they widen the moment after the words pass his lips, as though he had not meant them to.

 

It is probably because they are so perfectly ridiculous. “If you mean to tell me a lie, try harder. That’s not even a good one.”

 

And the anger is back. He grabs her by the wrists, grip as punishing as it was the night before she left Scottish court.

 

It scares her.

 

“You would have _died_ if we did not abide by Catherine’s terms!”

 

_My ministers have failed to secure an acceptable match for me, one that will be sufficiently advantageous to Scotland. I’ve come to the conclusion that renewing the French alliance is the best course of action. Catherine was adamant that it be done by marriage._

 

She wrenches herself out of his painfully tight grasp and sits down at the table, where her meal has now cooled to the point of complete inedibility. “Why would Catherine want you to be king? She hated you.”

 

He sits across from her before answering. “She did, but she was desperate. She first broached the subject with my mother some time after little Henry died. I told her to tell Catherine I had no interest and thought matters done with. Catherine then pressed Mary diplomatically. Mary didn’t want it either and put her off, said she was still considering her options, but Catherine grew impatient, fearful at the thought of the Protestants rebelling and killing Charles so Antoine might seize the throne.”

 

“Why would that be worse than you as king?”

 

“Of Scotland? Catherine would see even me elevated if –”

 

“Of France.”

 

“Catherine never expected I would become king here. She thought I would remain at Mary’s side in Scotland, giving Charles an ally of his own blood in a country with restive Catholics looking for an excuse to lash out at Protestants, admittedly a country with relatively little power, but at least more than Navarre. She thought that alone could be enough to check the Bourbons’ ambitions, but there was also the possibility of England.”

 

That is true. Queen Elizabeth had no husband or children and, even if she did not seek to supplant her, her cousin had the best claim after her and could have been Elizabeth’s successor if harm had befallen the English queen before her own death.

 

“And of course Catherine must have thought that someday Charles would have had children of his own. If she’d known what was to come, I imagine she would have moved to have Jean legitimized ahead of me, but he died before Charles took a turn for the worse.”

 

Not _died._ Was _murdered_. But now is not the time to take him to task for mischaracterizing the nature of his nephew’s demise. “How precisely did Catherine force the issue of your marriage? It seems you were willing to stand up to her for a time. Who broke? Was it you or was it Mary? Was it –”

 

“It was me.”

 

It feels as though he’s struck her. Despite all his protestations and her attempts to steel herself against them, she’d begun to soften. This new shock is all the more painful for it, more painful than his earlier too-strong grip on her wrists, and she cannot bear another moment with him. “Please leave.”

 

“Kenna –”

 

“No.” In some ways, she still knows him as well as she knows herself, so she aims her words where she knows they will hurt. “You scare me.”

 

Of course he knows her past, how his father terrified her in the end, and now he’s obviously horrified to have elicited a similar reaction.

 

So she takes advantage of his sudden inability to speak. “I mean, look what you’ve done.” She holds up her wrists for his inspection. It’s unlikely there will be bruises later, but the red imprints of his touch still stand out sharply against her winter-paled skin.

 

He flinches away from his own handiwork. “I’m sorry. I – Kenna, please, I did not mean to –”

 

The truth is his presence and his words inflict far more pain than his hands ever could, pain she thought she’d put behind her, but she will never admit that to him. “You did not mean to, but you did.”

 

He looks so guilty that she almost feels guilty herself.

 

It may be wrong to manipulate him this way, but he was wrong to treat her so roughly both here and at Holyroodhouse years ago, so she is merely making things even between them now.

 

\---

 

He returns to her than night, requesting entry after the children are abed but before she herself has succumbed to sleep. If truth be told, she’s not sure she’ll sleep at all this night. Still, she’s tempted to refuse him – she knows this time he would respect her wishes – but she acquiesces.

 

“Majesty,” she says, rising from her seat by the fire with the barest curtsey.

 

“That’s unnecessary,” he says before she’s even done. “Things did not end well this afternoon. I was rough with you and I apologize.”

 

“No harm done,” she says, turning over her unblemished wrists for his inspection.

 

He reacts exactly as she expected. “That’s not the point. I behaved badly and frightened you, but I swear it will not happen again.”

 

It is a relief that in some ways he is still the same man she once loved. “Good.”

 

“I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

 

“I do.”

 

He nods thankfully. “I also wanted to continue our conversation. Years ago, before you left Holyrood, you asked if Lady Walton’s poisoned cup was meant for you. Not by Mary or me, of course, but we knew it must have been, after Catherine’s increasingly angry, desperate demands. I was terrified the next attempt would succeed, so I knew we what we must do. I preferred you live hating me than die loving me.”

_I preferred you live hating me than die loving me._

 

“But now . . . now there’s no need to make those kinds of choices. There’s no danger anymore. Now I can make it all right, if you’ll agree.”

 

She gasps – an unfeigned, involuntary reaction – when he drops to one knee and pulls something out of his pocket that’s as familiar to her as her own face in the mirror.

 

_A wedding ring. It’s modest, I know. It belonged to my grandmother._

 

“Marry me, Kenna.”

 

She looks at the delicate ring in his hands for a too-long moment.

 

After retrieving it from Penelope in the kitchens, she wore it every day on her left ring finger save during the late stages of her first pregnancy, when her fingers swelled too much for her to wear any ring at all. She’d left it in their old rooms at Holyrood out of spite after learning of the coming annulment.

 

And here it is now, returned to her, so they might pick up where they left off with each other, albeit in a strange new world where he has the whole of a royal jewel collection available to him and still chooses the little trinket that was the beginning of everything.


	8. father and mama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Marry me again and we can do it all right this time.” Bash’s voice takes on a distinctly un-kingly edge.

“Marry me again and we can do it all right this time.” Bash’s voice takes on a distinctly un-kingly edge. On another man she would call it pleading, even desperate. “The proposal on bent knee,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. “The wedding of your dreams – a wedding fit for a queen. And –”

 

But she can’t.

 

She knew bastard Sebastian and even the Earl of Mar, but they are long gone and she doesn’t know King Sebastian at all. She knows it’s selfish and stupid, she knows what she’s denying her children, but she _can’t_.

 

He doesn’t know her either, not anymore, or Tara, and Charlie not at all.

 

She shakes her head. She wants to say _no_ , perhaps even to run from the room and from France, but she can’t.

 

“Kenna –”

 

“I – I – please stand up; I can’t do this with you looking up at me like that.”

 

The look on his face is the same he wore in the throne room, the same he wore last night, but a thousand times more pained. “I don’t know that I want to make it easier for you to refuse me,” he says quietly. Still, he stands.

 

“I – I need time.” Time to think, to plan, to _understand_ . . . They look at one another for a long moment until she remembers something. “If I say no, what happens to the children?”

 

His eyes become shuttered again, as in the throne room. “I –”

 

 _The throne room._ And then – but good God, returning to court has made a mess of her emotions – her anger arises anew and she shakes her head. “I must know, because you’ve hardly been the epitome of a loving father thus far.”

 

“You would question –” he begins quietly. “Whether I –”

 

She cannot help but interrupt. “Yes, I would question! The way you acted in the throne room yesterday! I expect precious little of you now, but Tara . . . your indifference, it hurt her. _You_ hurt her.”

 

He blinks.

 

She does not understand what could _possibly_ be confusing about her words

 

Then she realizes he is fighting tears. “I – I . . . stupidly, I suppose I expected the little girl she was when you left Holyrood, whose affection was so free and easy, who loved me best. Do you remember how jealous that used to make you?”

 

She nods. She would smile if she weren’t so angry. But he hasn’t seen her in three years . . . how much has Tara grown and changed since then?

 

“But how could I expect that after three years, after the distance I’d purposely placed between you three and me? I was reminded I was a king in that moment and I took my cue from her, instead of remembering that she was a child, clinging to what she’d been taught, that it should have been me that set propriety aside after the formalities had been observed, gathered her in my arms the way I wanted to. And yet I – I didn’t know if it would be welcome, after all this time.”

 

She remembers now the way his fingers curled so desperately about the arms of the throne. Perhaps that had been the only way he could anchor himself, could tamp down the impulse that ran through him in that moment. But that still doesn’t explain everything.

 

“What about those letters? After we left court, when you wrote, you didn’t write to her directly, you wrote to me and not even personally and those stupid notes were so indifferent and detached, they –”

 

“ _At Holyrood, the walls have ears_. Your father told us that, as though we’d never lived at a royal court before, as though I hadn’t been born and raised here at French court. Do you remember?”

 

She does, so clearly. She’d even thought them that last night at Holyrood, when Bash had come to her hours before she meant to leave, threatening to force her to leave Tara with him. “I do.”

 

“I wasn’t well-liked; a foreign-born king consort who set aside his wife – a wife whose family was well-respected in Scotland – and the children of their marriage for his own ambition –” he scoffs – “a foreigner who was thought to have too much influence over their queen, who herself was thought by some to be Scottish in little more than name, with her French upbringing. And that’s not even getting into the issue of religion.”

 

All these things she knows or at least could surmise.  

 

“I couldn’t be seen to show the children any favor and risk that they’d be harmed by my enemies.”

 

Of course. _Of course._ Her simmering anger dissipates some. “As it is, they very nearly were,” she admits.

 

He closes his eyes a moment. “God, if you’d listened to me and stayed at court –”

 

She can’t help but interrupt again. “I could never have –”

 

“I was about to say it could’ve been that much worse.”

 

“But I didn’t and it wasn’t, thank God. John – Lord Huntley,” she amends hastily. “You remember him, I imagine –”

 

He nods.

 

“And Lola’s brother,” she adds. “They warned us of a rebel plot to kidnap the children. It’s why we fled to France, to Lola.”

 

“Thank God for them both. And Lola. God, even Narcisse, I suppose. Anyway . . . now that you are here and safe, they will have their due, one way or another. But it would be so much easier if we married again,” he continues, circling back to the original topic of their conversation. “After abdicating the throne of Scotland and making peace with its Protestant king, I’m not exactly in the Pope’s good graces.”

 

There is a part of her that wants her children’s status resolved at once, that would gladly pledge her troth to him again that very night in a hastily thrown-together ceremony – at sword point, even – to secure their futures. _Their due_ is too vague for her tastes; now that being made legitimate by their parents’ marriage – becoming a prince and a princess – has been presented as an option for her children, she wonders if she has made a terrible mistake.

 

But there is a different part of her that resists, another that reminds her that she must be smarter and more careful than that, and yet another that recalls that, of all of Henry’s legitimate children, only Claude and Elisabeth remain, that being _enfants de France_ did not save their brothers from untimely ends.

 

But neither did being illegitimate spare Kenna’s children from becoming targets for the rebels.

 

She is simply too overwhelmed to make any decisions this night. “We’ve not been here two full days. I think the very first thing to do is for you to get reacquainted with Tara and acquainted with Charlie and them with you. After that . . . well, we’ve spent years apart, you and I.” 

 

He nods in silent, if reluctant, agreement.

 

\---

 

They will start small – breaking their fast privately with the children each day.

 

The following morning, they are halfway out the door when Tara tugs at her mother’s arm. “Could you fix my hair, Mama?”

 

“Fix it? There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s very becoming,” she answers, just barely skimming her fingertips over the crown of her daughter’s head, so as not to muss her dark locks.

 

“Please, I don’t like it, it’s . . .” Tara doesn’t finish her sentence and suddenly Kenna understands. She’s nervous. Her daughter is only a child, after all, being reunited with a father she hardly remembers. The formal introduction to court barely counts and it obviously crushed her usual spirit some.

 

Kenna blinks and tries to ignore the prickling behind her eyes. She knows it’s not her fault, that she didn’t want to prepare Tara for a father only to find he was a king first and have her be hurt – which she was anyway. And now that she knows it’s not entirely Bash’s fault – he might’ve handled it better, he might’ve confided in her, but he did the things he did to protect her – she feels such _regret_ over it all.

 

She calls for one of the servants. “Please tell the king we’ve had a small delay,” she asks, sighing as she sets to work on Tara’s hair.

 

\---

 

As soon as they’ve been announced, Bash dismisses the servants.

 

Tara’s eyes widen at the meal laid out before them. It’s a ridiculously plentiful breakfast, far more sumptuous than what they had in Diane’s rooms yesterday, which in itself was not what the children are used to.

 

When Kenna had returned to her family home with her husband after a hastily arranged flight from France with only their things and no servants, they’d quickly been taken into the fold and settled into Scottish habits, eating the simple but filling fare she’d been raised on.

 

Tara has little memory of those days – halcyon days, as Kenna thinks of them now, when both her attention and Bash’s was first and foremost for each other and for Tara. Tara’s earliest, faintest recollections are probably of court at Holyrood, where Mary had French cooks and servants along with the Scots and the food was far fussier and more French than anything served at Livingston House for children’s consumption.

 

But what Tara’s grown up with since is that same simple, hearty Scottish fare that Nanny Moira insists is best for lords and lads and ladies and “growing bairns” alike, all that Charlie knows.

 

Her second thought is that she isn’t sure where to sit.

 

Bash hesitates for a long moment before pulling out the chair at the right of the head of the table for her – Charlie beside her – and then the left, with an encouraging gesture to Tara.

 

“Thank you, Your –”

 

“Please, none of that,” he interrupts softly. “Just . . .” he trails off.

 

“Thank you, Father,” Tara ventures shyly, shifting nervously in her seat.

 

Before, he was always _Papa_ , but it seems as if _Father_ will be difficult enough for Tara to get used to after being so thoroughly rebuffed upon arrival and he seems to understand, even as it pains him, rewarding Tara with a small smile. “I’m very glad you’re here, you know. That we’re all together again.” He seems as if he’s about to say something else, but settles for just looking at Tara instead, everything Kenna suspects he must have very determinedly locked away during their audience in the throne room in his eyes. Ever so tentatively, he reaches out to take Tara’s small hand.

 

She recognizes now that it was necessary for Bash to keep control of himself while they were before half the court and wonders when he learned that lesson. She remembers the early days of their marriage when she had to talk him down from showing his temper to his mad father and finds that she misses her headstrong husband.

 

Still, this incarnation of Bash is far likelier to survive and thrive and her – their – children with him.

 

But then it’s silent for too long and he seems to have a need to fill the silence when it stretches on. “I’m only sorry it couldn’t be sooner, but it wasn’t safe before. You were safer away.”

 

Young as she is, Tara is very clever and would probably ask _why wasn’t it safe?_ , except that, even if she didn’t know enough of the answer not to need to ask, she probably would not presume to question her royal father.

 

\---

 

“Why did we leave, Mama? This isn’t a game, is it?” Tara asks once they are settled in the shabby little carriage Ronan is taking them to the port in. God knows where he found it.

 

The question shouldn’t surprise her. Tara is too bright to have bought that foolish excuse for long and now is the last private time they will have until they arrive at their final destination, so it is now she must answer. “As you know, Queen Mary has died –”

 

“When she had her baby,” Tara finishes. The coming heir to the throne was always referred to as the queen’s child in their household, not as a half-sibling to Kenna’s children.

 

“It was Queen Mary who was Scottish and inherited the throne from her father. Your father is French and is king of Scotland because he married her. Because your father is French, some of the Scottish nobles do not want him to rule now that Queen Mary and her baby have died, and they’ve rebelled. Because your father is the king, it’s dangerous for us to stay in Scotland right now. We are going away so we will be safe away from the fighting.” She won’t get into religious matters, not now.

 

Tara worries her lip pensively. “Where are we going?”

 

“To France.”

 

“Is it safer there?”

 

“Yes,” Kenna lies. She hopes it will be, but she cannot be certain. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

 

And that, no matter what else happens, is the truth.

 

\---

 

“But all is well now and now you’re here,” he continues, injecting cheer into his voice as he releases Tara’s hand. “And I’m sure you’re hungry, so let’s eat.”

 

Looking more closely at their repast, Kenna realizes that there are Scottish dishes alongside the French sweets and savories. As it turns out, they’re not quite right, but they’re not bad either.

 

Tara doesn’t have much of the Scottish dishes – she’s used to how truly excellent Cook’s are at home – but she does tuck into the lattice-work tarts she so enjoyed in Diane’s chambers.

 

“Your grandmother said you were partial to them,” Bash ventures.

 

“They’re very good,” Tara says. It’s the most enthusiasm she’s shown in his presence.

 

“We’re all rather partial to them,” Kenna adds.

 

Charlie nods beside her. He’s been very, very shy.

 

Bash has watched Charlie anxiously between the occasional pleasantries and now he looks so pleased it near breaks her heart.

 

She squeezes her little boy’s sticky hand under the table. _I know you don’t know him, but he’s your father and he’s trying. Thank you for trying, too, darling boy._

 

\---

 

Try they must, because it won’t be easy. She watches Bash watch Tara walk away with Nanny Moira, Charlie toddling carefully along beside them, gripping Nanny Moira’s hand to steady himself.

 

“Give her some time.”

 

He gives her a grateful look.

 

\---

 

Later, Nanny Moira tells her that one of the head cook’s assistants had spoken with her ahead of breakfast on behalf of the head cook.

 

“ _The king wishes to have his children’s favorite foods served_ , the chit says. And so I provided the names. She clearly hadn’t the faintest what any of it was, so I wrote down the ingredients and instructions myself. My word, did she grumble! _We’ll be up half the night_ _getting it right_ , she says. _So you will. It’s the king’s command, isn’t it?_ I say and she slinks off without another word.” Nanny Moira huffs and shakes her head. “But I still don’t like him.”

 

“Nanny –” Kenna warns.

 

“It isn’t treason not to _like_ a king, is it? And he’s not my king anyway.”

 

She pauses. “You’re right. But in light of . . . everything, it seems like the children and I will stay put. He’s granted me a duchy.” It’s hard for her to continue. “You may return to Scotland if you wish. We would miss you dearly, but I would understand if you don’t want to stay.”

 

“I can hardly leave if you insist on making a muck of your life.”

 

Kenna raises an eyebrow, torn between anger and confusion.

 

“There was Callum to think of when you first came to serve Queen Mary, so I couldn’t be sent with you and your father thought you too grown to need me anyway. But I wept bitterly to know about your dealings with the old mad king and – and the things you did later because of them.”

 

She knows Nanny Moira’s thinking of the herbs she nearly used to cast Charlie out, fearing the madness that proved both Henry’s and Francis’s undoing would show itself in her children. They’ve only spoken once about Henry, when Nanny Moira confronted her upon finding the packet hidden away in a drawer before they were first summoned to Holyrood, demanding why she would ever want to do such a thing when she was married and happily so and her husband was a good father to the child they already had. She’d nearly broken down in tears when she finally unburdened herself of the fear she’d shared with no one, not even Bash, because she knew it wasn’t entirely sane, and yet . . . she could not help it.

 

“But it’s easy for a girl to be seduced and led astray by an older man. Now you are a woman grown and a mother and smarter than that. And you have _always_ been better than being some man’s kept woman, king or not!” Nanny Moira swallows and looks away, before locking eyes with her. “I’ve overstepped, but it’s the truth. I am not your mother, but I raised you and I won’t see you make the same mistakes again.”

 

She feels tears prick her eyes. “It’s all very complicated. There were reasons . . . there were political reasons for his marriage to Mary and threats made against me so they would go through with it.”

 

“Are you sure it’s true?” Nanny Moira asks suspiciously.

 

“I – I have no reason to believe it isn’t. And . . . and he wants to marry me again.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I told him I needed time.”

 

“Kenna Janet!” Nanny Moira is clearly outraged, an abrupt shift in mood.

 

“We’ve been apart too long. I don’t know him anymore and the children don’t know him at all. I want to give us all some time, Nanny.”

 

Nanny Moira doesn’t look entirely pleased, but she nods. “So he’s not a complete idiot.”

 

She gives a watery laugh, because only Nanny Moira would have the pluck to refer to a king as _not a complete idiot_.


	9. a woman scorned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She blurts out the more difficult question. “What was it like with Mary?”

She tries her best to include Bash in the children’s routines when he’s not occupied with his various kingly responsibilities so that they will grow used to him. He has precious little time, as he is still settling into his new position, so besides their breakfasts, that tends to mean evenings, after the children have had their supper and before they are to go to bed.

 

One night, Charlie – though he’s so young she’s not sure he fully understands what he’s hearing – pouts when she begins the same story she’s read them an unfortunate number of times. “No.”

 

Tara has been even less impressed with the selection, but little lady that she is, she has not complained despite the fact that her most cherished storybooks were left behind in Scotland in the midst of their hasty flight. Later, over Kenna’s protests, Lola stuffed one of Tara’s favorites from Narcisse’s library into their bags before their departure for court.

 

She’d not realized until Nanny Moira unpacked their things and waved the volume at Tara, asking if she’d taken it. “ _Aunt Lola_ put it there,” Tara insisted.

 

But one book does not a full rotation of stories make and the royal library is curiously devoid of such books, considering Henry and Catherine’s sizeable number of children. In fact, they were just discussing the dearth of suitable books for children earlier in the day.

 

\---

 

While Diane is obviously very fond of Charlie, Tara, as the elder and more loquacious child, is rather more interesting, so it’s Tara who Diane quizzes through luncheon.

 

Kenna tries not to say too much; between court events and private time like this, she now spends far too much time with her former mother-in-law for her taste.

 

“Have you learned to ride at all?” Diane asks after finishing the tiniest bite imaginable. It’s no wonder she stays so slender.

 

Tara nods. “I have my own horse at home.”

 

Diane’s eyes dim for a moment, so Kenna is tempted to change the topic before Diane can launch into a reminder that France is Tara’s home now.

 

“Uncle Andrew gave him to me; his name is Starlight, but I call him Star for short. And I had a pony at Aunt Lola’s; her name is Moonlight.”

 

\---

 

Tara misses her beloved horse even more than her storybooks and speaks of him often, so Lola quickly offers Jean’s old pony, but Kenna puts it off despite Tara’s pleading because she is rather discomfited at the idea of her children claiming all of their late cousin’s possessions, even if this one is a live animal.

 

Finally, one day after breakfast, Lola insists that they have a surprise for Tara that she must come see at once.

 

Reluctantly, Kenna follows Lola and Tara – and _Narcisse_ – out to the stables. Despite not sharing her brother’s and her daughter’s keen interest in horses, Kenna is a more than competent rider herself and has a cursory knowledge of horses – enough for her to recognize that this gray pony is an Andalusian.

 

“She’s of Arion’s line –” Narcisse’s own beloved Andalusian (she was right) – “And thus the finest possible pony one could hope for,” Narcisse informs Tara.

 

“May I pat her?” Tara asks, awed.

 

“If she’s anything like her sire, you might want to give her an apple first.”

 

Tara accepts the apple proffered by the waiting stable hand at once. “What’s her name?”

 

“Whatever you see fit to call her.”

 

“Me?”

 

“She is yours.”

 

“My – she’s _mine_?”

 

Narcisse nods and Lola positively beams.

 

“Thank you!” Tara throws her arms about Narcisse’s middle. He freezes and she immediately lets go, flushing bright pink.

 

But Narcisse interrupts her stammering apologies. “I suppose if there’s anything to get overexcited about, it’s a good horse.”

 

He brushes off Kenna’s thanks similarly later that day. “It’s evident that your daughter has an appreciation of fine horseflesh. Lola thought that ought to be encouraged.”

 

\---

 

Diane smiles at Tara’s enthusiasm. “Have you been out to the stables here yet?”

 

Tara shakes her head.

 

“Well, you must go out with your father soon. He so loves to ride. Your grandfather started him on his own pony nearly as soon as he could walk.”

 

Charlie’s not starting yet, Kenna decides as she inspects him for any stray bits of food that somehow escaped her notice before now. Not if she has anything to say about it. What business does a child that small have on a pony?

 

“Your father will have a lovely one for you, I’m sure.”

 

Tara nods again, somewhat hopefully.

 

“What else do you especially like?”

 

“Reading. We read with Mama at night. Well, I read. Charlie listens.”

 

Diane smiles indulgently. “Of course. What are you reading now?”

 

Tara launches into a brief description of their single storybook.

 

“And what else have you read lately?”

 

“Just that one. Well, there were others when we stayed with Aunt Lola, but we left our books at home.”

 

It seems all these references to Scotland as home are becoming too much for Diane to bear. Kenna can practically see her internal struggle to contain herself. But all she says is “there are plenty of books like that in the library.”

 

“We looked, Grandmother,” Tara replies, chewing at her lip uncertainly, no doubt shy about correcting her. “Mama and I.”

 

“We did,” Kenna confirms.

 

“Well, then there _used_ to be books like that,” Diane says with a peevish twist to her mouth. “I’m sorry about that, sweet girl. I’ll take care of it.”

 

\---

 

While Tara is old enough for more sophisticated things and had taken lessons informally with Lola when she was deprived of her own tutor (Kenna will need to sort that out soon), Charlie has some years before he can have such lessons. But it seems even he shares her interest in reading – well, being read to, at this point. While she’s never been the scholarly sort and found the reading required of her by her tutor as a child particularly dry, she enjoys reading for its own sake and had found much to occupy her in Narcisse’s vast collection during their stay at his estate.

 

“No story tonight?” Bash asks in disbelief.

 

“New story,” Charlie corrects sleepily.

 

“I don’t have a new story, darling.” She adds guiltily, “I have to send for the books we left.” Perhaps some of the Biblical parables in the meantime . . .

 

Charlie pouts again, his little fist curled into his blanket.

 

“I’m sure we can find new ones, too,” Bash promises.

 

Charlie is already half-asleep even as they talk, but Tara gives her a skeptical look when Kenna looks up from brushing a kiss on his forehead. Shy uncertainty and skepticism seem to be Tara’s predominant sentiments toward her father, but she only displays the latter when his attention is elsewhere, as it is now, watching Charlie. “May I go now?” she asks, rising from her seat on the bed.

 

Kenna kisses her forehead as well. “Good night. I love you.”

 

But Tara doesn’t walk toward Nanny Moira, who lingers at the door, ready to take her to her own bed. “Father?”

 

Bash jumps slightly, guiltily. It seems he still has not internalized _Father_ as a name that refers to himself. “Yes?”

 

“May I go now?” Tara repeats.

 

None too gently, Kenna nudges his foot with her own.

 

“I could – Why don’t I come with you?”

 

 _Good boy._ Somehow, she resists the urge to smile at the fact that she just thought of the king of France as a “good boy.”

 

Tara is clearly taken aback by the offer, but catches herself remarkably speedily. “Yes, Father.” She hesitates before putting her hand in his outstretched one, but she does it nevertheless.

 

And while Charlie claps his small hands in delight, it is Tara who is the most pleased of all when a collection of beautifully illuminated storybooks arrives from Paris, presented, with an uncharacteristic flourish, by Bash.

 

From the look on his face at Tara’s reaction, she concludes that Tara will be receiving a great many books from now on, though she hopes Bash doesn’t mean to buy their daughter’s affection.

 

\---

 

As the days wear on, Kenna begins to doubt her choice to take time before making any final decisions. While what little free time Bash has is spent with her and the children and she always has a place at his right hand – with Diane at the left – at banquets and other court activities, she cannot help but notice that he doesn’t mention his proposal or any plans to legitimize the children again.

 

The entire court seems to have concluded that, bastards though they remain, slights to the king’s children – or their mother – will not be tolerated. Most courtiers must realize that Bash – who knows better than anyone what it is to be a king’s bastard – is likely to be particularly displeased if his children are shown any disrespect. Though Kenna is loath to credit Diane with anything, she also suspects that Diane has had no small part in their reception, openly doting on her grandchildren as she does.   

 

In fact, some courtiers become irritatingly obsequious, with more noblewomen than she cares to count seeking her out to ply her with gifts, to offer the services of their children’s nursery maids to assist Nanny Moira or tutors – as though the poor women and men don’t have enough to be getting on with – until she selects her own, or merely to call upon her and prattle incessantly about nothing.

 

Ridiculously, the horde includes the former Lady Barnard, already on her second husband – Lord Reyne – after the first met the king’s justice and his Maker.

 

“Lady Reyne to see you, Your Grace.”

 

_The two of you hang from the thinnest of threads, Francis and Mary’s inexplicable devotion to you. It keeps you at court, but it won’t save you. It won’t save your husband. . . ._

She’d been right about that much, the thrice-damned woman – that thin little thread had snapped, left them in limbo, and eventually led them here.

 

_It's good to love one's husband. I appreciate your devotion. But if you don't stop your husband's investigation into mine, your devotion will be to a dead man._

 

She shakes her head at the memories.

 

_Give it to me._

_I can't. I burned it. I didn't do it for the bribe. I won't take anything from them. I did it to save your life. Barnard's wife swore that you would be killed if her husband were ever prosecuted._

 

She hadn’t done it for herself; it hadn’t been Lady Barnard’s threat to her that scared her, but the threat to Bash, and the memory makes her more sympathetic to him. But that’s a thought for later. Before her now is a woman who used her and threatened her. “Did you truly think you could worm your way into my good graces now that I –”

 

Lady Reyne flushes a hot, angry, embarrassed pink.

 

Kenna is pleased to see it, and if that makes her unkind, she doesn’t care.

 

“Now that you’ve wormed your way into another king’s bed, Your Grace?” Lady Reyne’s eyes fill with horror; Kenna could easily pinpoint the moment when she realizes she actually spoke her true thoughts aloud.

 

“Get out,” Kenna says evenly. She’s not jumped into bed with Bash, but that is hardly the point. “And never darken my door again.”

 

She will do her best not to make new enemies, but she will certainly not make peace with this old one.

 

\---

 

Every other visit is quite mundane. She’ll have to get used to court life again, to handling these courtiers as she once did the wives of the privy councilors at Holyrood, but it’s been a very long time.

 

In the meantime, Nanny Moira will always find some convenient excuse to save her from her boredom before too long.

 

\---

 

One night after they’ve tucked the children into bed, they sit together near the fire, as they’ve often done of late, and she watches the flames thoughtfully, gathering the courage to ask a question that’s plagued her for some time.

 

She starts with one that’s not so difficult. “Why did you abdicate?”

 

Bash nods. “There was no reason for me to try to hold Scotland, except that I would have been stripping myself of every power. If I’d abdicated immediately and somehow managed to escape Scotland alive – and I had no reason at the time to believe I could’ve kept my head if I’d surrendered – Catherine surely would have punished me for it. Stripped me of Anjou at best, tried to do you and the children harm at worst. But with France in my power, even Catherine couldn’t stand against me. At that point, I was safe. The rebels knew Scotland was in a weak position still. Even they would hardly wish to destroy the Auld Alliance if we could come to an agreement that would give them one of their own as king and France as a continuing ally. And peace meant that I’d no longer have to keep you and the children at arm’s length.”

 

_I’d kept you and the children at arm’s length so that you wouldn’t be hurt by people trying to use you against me . . . The whole point of keeping you away was to keep you safe._

 

As it did when he first said it, it makes sense, and yet . . .  _You foolish man. Why did you never_ tell _me?_

 

Then she blurts out the more difficult question. “What was it like with Mary? Your marriage, I mean.”

 

Bash sits up beside her, stiff and startled, but she touches his face to soothe him, traces his jaw the way he always liked. It’s a bit presumptuous, she supposes, overfamiliar now, but it was instinctive, as though no time had passed at all.

 

There is so much that is strange about their situation, so much that has passed between them that is so very much outside the bounds of the usual rules of society and propriety – marriage, an annulment, two children, the possibility of remarriage . . .

 

He closes his eyes.

 

She feels a strange flicker at the memories his reaction recalls to the surface, but forces herself to focus when he opens his eyes and speaks, slowly removing her hand so as not to startle him into silence.

 

“It would’ve been easier with her if I’d married her when we sought to save Francis, when _my_ heart was open. Easier for me, anyway. We both knew what it was to love and to lose, but Francis was dead and you’re very much alive. That was the whole point of it for me, after all. But I knew how much you must hate me and it plagued me always.”

 

She doesn’t reassure him, because it would be a lie and she will not lie when she has demanded his honesty.

 

\---

 

“Give her some time.”

 

Bash gives her a grateful look, but doesn’t speak until Nanny Moira and the children are out the door and they’re left quite alone. “Yesterday you said you wanted safety and stability and honesty.”

 

She nods, unwillingly impressed that he remembers her exact words.

 

“I can give you the first two easily now –”

 

“And I won’t consider your proposal seriously if you can’t give me the third,” she interrupts. “You _must_ be honest with me. You can’t lie to me or keep secrets from me now that there is no reason to. Can you promise me that?”

 

He hesitates, but nods. “You have my word.”

 

\---

 

Instead, she refuses to break his gaze. “Did you love her?”

 

It’s ridiculous and unnecessary. Mary is dead and he has told her that he wed Mary for love of _her_. But the jealous young bride, the fearful courtier, the devastated wife set aside and scorned – despite the years the two of them have spent apart, she’s never fully laid those earlier versions of herself to rest and they clamor for answers.

 

He seems to understand. “I believed I did, before you and our marriage.”

 

“And after you married her?”

 

“I believe I was as good a husband to her as I could be under the circumstances and I would have continued to be if she’d lived.”

 

“And?”

 

“I tried, after –” He swallows hard.

 

“After?” she presses.

 

“After she got pregnant. But I couldn’t.”

 

She finds some small relief in that.

 

“Before that, I . . . I often hoped Catherine would die – I even – My mother and I – well, between us we made a number of attempts to have Catherine assassinated.”

 

It surprises her – from him, despite everything Catherine did to them, but not from Diane, who always hated Catherine as fiercely as Catherine hated her.

 

“I thought – I thought perhaps if Catherine died, my marriage to Mary could be annulled and I could return to you because there would be no threat to your life anymore. As long as Catherine lived, you weren’t really safe, because she could use you against me. But it began to seem impossible – in my darkest moments, I sometimes wondered if she had sold her soul to the devil and would live unto eternity – and eventually . . . well . . .”

 

 _Well_ , what? she nearly snaps with impatience.

 

“You know what things were like in Scotland. It seemed like the best way for Mary and me to secure our rule was to produce an heir, or else we’d likely end up dead and what use would I be then? But when she said she was with child, that – that was when I truly felt I was bound in that marriage, till death. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Of course I did not wish her dead, or our child –” He stops, as if overcome.

 

She looks away for a moment, throat tight, because she does not know if she can bear what she would see in his eyes.

 

She may be an awful person, but she cannot bring herself to be sad over any of it, except for how it clearly still hurts Bash. Not because she feels hatred for that poor baby or even Mary now, but because she burns with jealousy and aches with some undefinable loss over the fact that the man she loved had a child with someone besides her, even if that child barely lived long enough to draw breath.

 

If Catherine ever felt a quarter as much for Henry as she had for Bash, she now understands Catherine’s bitterness over Henry’s love for Diane and for him.

 

And she simply cannot believe that Mary herself could ever have looked at Lola and Jean without this same sort of jealousy raging through her. 

 

She forces herself to look back at him again. “I’m sorry. I –”

 

“You asked for my honesty and that is what I’m giving you.” He swallows uncomfortably. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

 

She hesitates; she knows this hasn’t been easy for him. “No.”

 

Of course there is – they spent years apart – but there is nothing else she wants to know _today_.

 

\----

 

After a long time, Bash speaks up. “What about you?”

 

“What about me what?”

 

“Was there . . . anyone else?”

 

“Were there other men, you mean?”

 

“Plural?” He laughs, but it’s rather forced. “Yes. You’re as beautiful as ever. You must have had opportunities.”

 

“Stable hands and kitchen boys, perhaps,” she scoffs, wanting to keep her secrets secret.

 

“I know kitchen boys were more to Greer’s taste, but did the stable hands have no appeal?”

 

“Not after having the Master of Horse and Hunt,” she teases back.

 

“But really . . .” And the teasing’s through. “I – I never expected we’d find ourselves here, with another chance because I thought – I know I tried to keep you with me at first, but in the end I thought it best to set you free, to let you move on and be happy without me in case there was no escaping the choices I’d made.”

 

_I preferred you live hating me than die loving me._

 

“So did you?”

 

“Did I . . . ?”

 

“Move on?”

 

What can she possibly say to that question? “Yes,” she finally admits, deciding to tell him the truth. “I did.”


	10. a jealous man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You said you were tired of being alone. Alone,” he scoffs.

Bash’s face falls.

 

“You had another wife and told me nothing of the noble intentions behind your actions. You had no right to expect anything else,” she says sharply, suddenly irritated by his disappointment and her feelings of guilt.

 

The guilt, though – it is not for Bash, she realizes, but guilt for a man who imagined a life with her, a life in which he was willing to include her children, a life she would rather have liked after everything she’s experienced.

 

“I might’ve remarried,” she continues.

 

“Truly?”

 

“You said it yourself: I am beautiful.” She laughs self-deprecatingly. It rings as false as it feels. “I am also obviously fertile and well-dowered. Although my suitor wasn’t terribly concerned about a dowry.”

 

“What was he like, this mystery lover?”

 

Does he not believe her? Does he not believe that another man could desire her enough to want to marry her after he set her aside? She fumes. “He was handsome, kind, exceedingly wealthy, and he was very good to the children.”

 

Bash’s jaw tightens. “And does this paragon have a name?”

 

\---

 

_All I’ll say is that there’s no point in waiting for boys our own age who have no idea what they’re doing. Either find a man or take care of your needs yourself._

After Andrew allows her to stay, she feels less inclination or urgency ever to remarry.

 

But she does get tired of taking care of her needs herself, needs that nearly drive her mad during her pregnancy and eventually after.

 

The kitchen boys and stable hands don’t draw her attention but there are occasional visitors – friends of her brother who have gradually reappeared or men who have business with him. Those who leer at her when Andrew’s back is turned have no chance, but those who are kind and handsome enough . . .

 

Sometimes she looks at their fingers holding a wineglass, their hands gripping their knives at the dinner table or holding a horse’s reins and she wonders how they’d feel on _her_. Sometimes she flirts – just barely, so they can’t be sure – and nods encouragingly at remarks meant to be clever, laughing lightly if they truly are.

 

But always she shies away, never going further than that in the end because, whatever feelings her countrymen have for her former husband, the fact is that he is their king now and what man could resist boasting about being where a king ­– _two kings_ , she corrects herself, with a moue of distaste for her own past – had been before? She cannot afford to make her reputation any worse and make life all the harder for her children.

 

And anyway, there is only one who matters, one worth taking a risk for, but he is no risk, in truth, because she knows him so well: John, who recalls the mischievous, coltish girl with the skinned knees she’d once been, who is her brother’s best friend, who is a known quantity, who is safe, who waits for _her_ to kiss _him_.

 

When she finally does – one day after she’s invited him for a ride while Andrew is occupied and the children are conveniently in their nanny’s care – she only wishes she’d done it sooner. She will be incredibly disappointed when he must leave.

 

But it seems he’s just as pleased with her, because he suddenly makes excuses to visit far more frequently than she recalls him doing before they first left for Holyrood at the queen’s summons years ago, more than could be reasonably explained by a desire to keep them informed of what goes on at court – often enough that even her brother becomes justifiably suspicious.

 

She can tell that Andrew is torn between giving them time alone and chaperoning their every interaction. His indecisiveness results in more than a few moments of discomfort for all of them until she reminds him, more sharply than she wished to – her brother has been, quite honestly, the best brother anyone could ask for – that he is her brother, not her father or her keeper.

 

Another man might have set her down sharply, reminded her of her place and of the fact that he has no obligation to keep her under his roof, but Andrew is a better sort of man.  

 

\---

 

Eventually, Andrew confides that John plans to ask for her hand – John, who has a title and holdings far greater than even theirs and has every right to expect a chaste wife, not a notorious woman who was mistress to one king and set aside as wife by another, who would bring two children with her. “I’ve suspected, of course, and I would have followed through with my threat to run him through if he didn’t, but now he’s actually said it,” Andrew tells her one evening after the children have gone to bed.

 

John hinted to her, too, and she was surprised – and more hopeful than she’s dared to be in a very long time – by the genuine happiness his words provoked. She’d smiled and kissed him and hoped that was encouragement enough. She’s been burned too often to be more explicit than that, but clearly he understood, and she thinks, for the first time since her life fell to pieces, that she could be happy again someday.

 

“I told him you were a woman grown and I would not make your decisions for you. You’ve been clear on that point.” And then he smiles. “He told me he knew that quite well, but he wished to do me the courtesy of pretending I had a say in the matter. I cuffed him –”

 

She laughs.

 

“And then I told him that, despite my better judgment, he had my blessing to ask you.”

 

“Andrew!” she breathes, half-scandalized and half-amused. 

 

“He means to return with his mother’s ring, but if you won’t accept him –”

 

“I would,” she interrupts.

 

He nods, pleased. He’d been fond of the king when he was merely her husband, but he loves John as a brother. 

 

But before John has a chance to do it up properly, everything changes.

 

\---

 

 _He’s lost to me now_ , she thinks sadly after the rebellion erupts. Because of her children.

 

No, because of who their father is – the king he is rebelling against, who left her to become that king, whose wife died at the most inconvenient possible time for rebellion to erupt in Scotland.

 

It seems that, for years, her former husband and her former friend have done nothing but ruin her life.

 

\---

 

“John G –”

 

Bash’s face falls again, but he hides it with more sarcasm. “Huntley? Quite the catch.”

 

“He meant to ask for my hand before the rebellion.”

 

“Of course. He wouldn’t have risked his skin to save our children just out of the goodness of his heart.”

 

She ignores the barb. “But after the rebellion ensued, I fled to France with the children. Then the rebellion ended, and your summons to court arrived before I could return to Scotland to begin anew.” She knows she is needling him, but suddenly she can’t help but think he deserves it.

 

“I suppose that’s the real reason you turned me down, then.” He doesn’t wait for a response before he begins fuming. “God, the man was one of James’s negotiators, respectful to my face, but probably laughing at me behind my back the entire time, knowing that he’d bedded my wife!”

 

“I’m not your wife,” she reminds him acidly. “So it’s none of your business who’s bedded me since you had our marriage dissolved.”

 

“You said you were tired of being alone. _Alone_ ,” he scoffs, turning on his heel and walking out.

 

\---

 

 _She_ scoffs for a good long time after he leaves. _Like a child with a toy. He put me aside and didn’t play with me, but he’s furious someone else had a turn._

Like father, like son.

She shakes her head at herself. Truly, she should have known, but somehow, she’s allowed herself to forget who his father was, who he is now. Because of it, she’s stupidly pushed him too far.

_You’ll do no such thing!_

_You’ve no right to order me about. I’m not your subject!_

_You may not be, but the children –_

 

Before, he did not take them from her because he thought they were safest with her, away from him.

 

Now things are different. Now, he holds all the cards and it seems they would be quite safe with him.

 

She vowed that he would not take her children, that she would not allow it, but really, how could she stop him if he truly wished to?

 

The truth is that she can’t; she simply must make sure that he never wants to.

 

\---

 

But he doesn’t give her the opportunity. He no longer requests her company alone, without the children, and often seeks their company without her. He only speaks to her barely enough to be civil at court events and Diane makes no attempt to include her in the conversation when she must sit with them.

 

That’s the problem with kings – they can discard you at will the moment you displease them.

 

Unattached noblewomen – along with the particularly bored or daring married ones – sense their opportunity, circling him like falcons now that she’s fallen out of favor.

 

She certainly didn’t think the nobles who flocked to her during her time in Bash’s good graces were her friends, but now she’d almost like for them to pester her again, if only so her suite of rooms wasn’t quite so quiet all the time.

 

\---

 

Fortunately for her, it doesn’t take long before she receives something far more precious than the new storybooks Tara so adores – a visitor far more welcome than the sycophantic courtiers who previously sought her favor.

 

“Lady –” her maid begins, but Kenna cuts the girl off with something resembling a shriek, recent events all but forgotten as she embraces one of her oldest, truest friends as though they were still giddy little girls.

 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. But I missed you terribly.”

 

\---

 

“Now, Kenna,” Greer begins after they’ve settled down some. “Before we start cooing and crowing over our children and talk about everything else we’ve missed, there’s something we need to discuss. I’ve been back for barely no time at all – I just gave the servants some instructions for the unpacking and nearly ran to you, but managed to come across not one, not two, but _five_ separate noblewomen whose husbands are friends of Aloysius’s, who all warned me to stay away because you’ve suddenly fallen out of favor with the king. Would you care to explain?”

 

It’s so very _Greer_ that she can’t even be upset by her friend’s scolding tone or interfering ways or her own stupidity.

 

“I was jealous,” she blurts out. “I was jealous and I was angry and I wanted him to see that other men found me desirable. So I told him about my relationship with Lord Huntley and how he was about to ask for my hand before the rebellion broke out.”

 

Greer looks unwillingly impressed for a moment and as if she is considering asking for details. Though Bash said it with extreme sarcasm, it is true that John is quite the catch. But she only asks, “Why would you do that?”

 

“He asked. But the way he asked . . . it made me so angry.”

 

“And that was it?” Greer asks disbelievingly. “He annulled your marriage to marry _Mary_ – which, my word, I could go on forever about how upset I was about that, poor Aloysius, I talked his ears off for months on end – and now he’s ignoring you because you pursued another good option? Really, I was shocked to hear that you even gave him the time of day, but I understand why you must have felt you had –”

 

“He agreed to marry Mary after Catherine attempted to poison me.”

 

Greer gasps. “Catherine was rotten, but why –”

 

“She saw me as the only obstacle to a marriage that would cement the alliance. He feared she wouldn’t stop until I was dead if they didn’t do as she wished.”

 

“That – that damn –” Greer swears, a muttered oath that makes her flush as soon as she’s done. But once the color’s receded from her cheeks, Greer turns practical again. “And to think I was so hard on them. But the past is the past.”

 

She suspects Greer will give it more thought when she is alone, as she herself did, but Greer has other priorities at the moment.

 

“Now you must make things right with him. Even if you weren’t in the wrong, well . . . you’re here, with your children, where you must all remain, and duchess or no –” Greer gives her a wry smile, a reminder of her old complaints about not getting a duchy and, rather than make her blood boil as when Diane needled her, now it only makes her smile equally wryly. “Well, you may be in a better position than Diane was, but you are all still quite dependent on Bash’s good will. Anything a king gives, he can take back just as easily.”

 

It’s a bit frightening to hear it said so bluntly, but it isn’t anything Kenna hasn’t already thought herself.

 

\---

 

Greer is right. The fact remains that, whatever she may have said to Bash, she knows she can’t return to Scotland or John now and she will have to make her plans accordingly.

 

It’s good to have Greer back to make her be sensible again.

 

But, before Kenna can do that, it seems God has deemed fit to grace French court with even more Scots.

 

\---

 

She can hear Diane’s dry comment upon being notified of the Scottish delegation’s unexpected arrival even from where she stands.

 

“It seems we are to be overrun by Scots,” Diane whispers loudly to Bash, giving Kenna a pointed look.

 

One would think Diane would take notice of her granddaughter, who is at her mother’s side, and how Tara frowns when she hears the derisive way Diane speaks of their countrymen.

 

“And yet we must welcome them,” Bash says darkly. He walks away from her with purposeful strides towards the dais.

 

Diane flounces in the opposite direction, to Kenna and Tara, who stiffens at her grandmother’s proprietary pat on the cheek.

 

Diane frowns and a childish part of Kenna is satisfied, even though Diane’s expression is uncomfortably similar to Tara’s. (It’s in the eyes, she realizes.) She is strongly tempted to leave Diane in the dark as to the source of Tara’s sudden pique – a temptation she decides she will give in to.

 

“Show them in at once,” Bash orders the man who brought him the news.

 

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

 

\---

 

When the doors burst open and she sees the newest arrivals to court, Kenna just barely manages not to gasp.

 

“So James sends me you,” Bash says icily in a clear, carrying voice from his seat upon the throne after they are announced. The _you_ is said with as much disgust as he might speak of dung on the bottom of his boot.


	11. sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love them.” Tara’s mumble manages to be touchingly earnest.
> 
> “Me, too.”
> 
> “And Father, even when he’s cross.” When Kenna doesn’t echo that sentiment, too, Tara blinks up at her, puzzled. “Don’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that this all makes sense . . . in the alternate universe of this story, none of the events of the second half of s2 happened and, while some of the events of the first half of s2 definitely happened, others did not. For instance, Mary’s rape did not happen in this universe and Kenna never met Antoine, as well as some others. That is to say, make no assumptions.

“So James sends me you,” Bash says icily in a clear, carrying voice from his seat upon the throne after the two men are announced and make their bows. The _you_ is said with as much disgust as he might speak of dung on the bottom of his boot.

 

Even in her shock, she realizes that _you_ really means _a man who rebelled against me and a man who wishes he could have done_ , something Bash cannot say outright without unnecessarily making himself look weak. Even in a (controlled) temper, there are certain lines he knows not to cross now.

 

From her vantage point – she stands to the right with Tara and Diane, not far from the goings-on – Kenna can see both men’s lips thin and tighten, white with the effort of holding their tongues.

 

It’s another moment that reminds her that she is not the only one who’s changed since she and her former husband went their separate ways. The old Bash would never have taken satisfaction and certainly no pleasure from lording his position over Andrew – they’d been close once, after all – and making him squirm as he does now.

 

“Look, Mama, it’s –”

 

“ _Hush_ ,” she hisses. The last thing they need is for Bash to notice how eager Tara is to see not only her uncle, but also the man who could have been her stepfather.

 

Thankfully Tara hushes at once.

 

Kenna wants to catch every word between the three men, but Bash just stares down at Andrew and John for a too-long moment, exploiting the dramatic effect of silent kingly displeasure to its fullest. The tension in the room is at breaking point.

 

Yet Tara pulls insistently at her gown until Kenna turns to look at her and recognizes the crook of her finger as a silent request that she bend down so Tara can whisper something in her ear.

 

“We’ll talk later,” she promises quickly in a whisper, returning her attention to the unfolding situation.

 

Bash’s eyes are chips of emerald ice when he finally begins to speak again, causing nearly every courtier to jump. “I’ve half a mind to send you back to him on the next ship, but I will not. You will tell your king that I will excuse this . . . oversight only because of my children’s affection for you, Lord Tarras.”

 

One of whose presence in the throne room he seems to have forgotten. Does he not care how Tara will feel to see –

 

“Am I understood?”

 

Andrew nods grudgingly, responding with a “yes, Your Majesty” that sounds as if it causes him physical pain.

 

Bash then dismisses them with an even icier “welcome to court, gentlemen,” finally freeing them to rise.

 

She’s knows she’s not imagining the ironic emphasis he places on the word _gentlemen_ and she doesn’t like it. Neither Andrew nor John deserves such treatment.

 

\---

 

Bash – or rather, Diane – has very deliberately, she assumes, failed to hold a banquet to welcome the new envoys. Instead, he has requested the children’s attendance at a private supper with his mother – an invitation that pointedly does not include their mother.

 

The slight has the benefit of allowing her to invite Andrew and John for a private supper of her own in her rooms that evening.

 

“Why – how –” she starts, not finishing her questions as her brother embraces her tightly.

 

“Surprised?” he asks wryly. “You look well.” He touches her cheek affectionately.

 

John answers for both of them after Andrew releases her. “We’ve come on behalf of King James officially – we volunteered, convinced him that Andrew, as your brother and uncle to this king’s children, would be a particularly effective emissary given that you’ve been recalled to French court –”

 

“It prevented royal anger from turning into royal action, I suppose, yes –” she agrees sardonically.

 

“But really we’ve come to bring you home.”

 

There is so much wrong with this plan of theirs that she doesn’t know where to start. “And James approves of this?”

 

“He hasn’t forbidden it.”

 

“He doesn’t know,” she translates.

 

“Yes,” they admit in sheepish unison.

 

Kenna sighs. “Not tonight, all right?” She’ll don her armor and make her plans tomorrow, but tonight she just wants to enjoy the company of two people who are very dear to her.

 

She will only talk of pleasant or at least amusing things – how Nanny Moira terrorized Narcisse and Tara had the man wrapped around her little finger during their stay with Lola, how Charlie’s attachment to the word “no” has only grown since they last saw him, of the time she’s spent with Greer and how pleased she is for her children to finally have in Greer’s children playmates whose family can be trusted.

 

\---

 

It’s only because of her insistence on good cheer that the atmosphere is so light when Tara runs in to greet Andrew and John before they say their good nights.

 

She can’t help but contrast the scene with Tara’s reunion with her father, but she won’t dwell on that.

 

“John!” Tara shouts.

 

It’s rather improper really, for Tara to be so informal with him, but he’d insisted long ago that they not stand on ceremony.

 

But it’s Andrew she runs past him to, who catches her and lifts her up. “I missed you so much, Uncle Andrew!”

 

“Not as much as I missed you. And I’ve brought some things I think you’ll rather like – your books and some toys and more of your clothes. Everything your mother said you wanted. Oh, and a gift that arrived from your aunt after you –”

 

Tara’s brow furrows in puzzlement.

 

Kenna is equally puzzled, because while Lola may have insisted on the title, Andrew has no reason to refer to her that way, nor would Lola have had reason to send a gift while they were in France.

 

“Your father’s –” Andrew can’t quite manage to hide the distaste he feels – “sister, the princess Claude.”

 

Claude sending her children presents? A first. How bizarre.

 

She knows that Claude had been fond of Jean only because Tara had used Claude’s final birthday gift to Jean – a finely crafted saddle that arrived a few days early, the evening prior to his murder. It was the only child-sized saddle on the estate until Moonlight no longer had to be kept a surprise from Tara and Lola ordered another made.

 

But Kenna’s children have never directly been beneficiaries of their aunt’s fits of generosity. Perhaps she was trying to get into her half-brother’s – Bash always insisted on the distinction – good graces.

 

“And presents from me, of course,” Andrew continues, obviously reveling in Tara’s wide smile and the way she throws her arms about his neck.

 

Tara brings out in Andrew the boy Kenna once knew, the sweetness she’d thought lost after their mother died and Father’s grief spread through Livingston House like a black fog.

 

When she’s let go of her uncle’s neck, Tara remains perched in his arms and stretches out her hand for John’s customary courtly kiss, as imperious as if she were already the princess her father wishes – wished (Kenna doesn’t even know anymore) – to make her until she breaks into giggles.

 

John obliges and Kenna’s heart clenches at the always-endearing gesture, but there is something – or rather someone – else she thinks of just then. “Callum – my God, I didn’t – how is he?”

 

“Insufferable,” Andrew mutters.

 

“Andrew!”

 

“What’s insuff –”

 

“Where is he?” Kenna presses.

 

“He’s at home.”

 

“I miss him. And I miss home,” Tara says softly, her giggles having ceased entirely.

 

 _Home._ So strange to think Livingston House is home to Tara, too, but it seems she will have to get used to a different home, in a different country.

 

Hopefully in France, at least, Tara will never suffer the instability that Kenna and Lola faced, but rather be more like Greer, who’s never had to leave since their return as girls and has been, from what Kenna can tell, the happiest of them here. Greer has her husband and stepchildren and two children of her own, all well and safe, despite the old trouble over Lord Castleroy’s Protestantism.

 

“So do I. But I missed you all more.”

 

That is when Nanny Moira approaches to collect Tara.

 

“Now go on with Nanny. Good night.” Andrew kisses Tara’s forehead and sets her down and kisses Nanny Moira’s cheek as well. “Dear Nanny Moira. I hope you’re well.”

 

Nanny Moira doesn’t bother with pleasantries. She cuffs him. “ _Insufferable?_ Callum’s always been a good boy! What have you done to my darling?”

 

Nanny Moira has never been particularly soft, but Callum has a special place in her heart because of the circumstances of his birth, so they’ve never teased her for her tenderness with him. Anyway, she’d probably box their ears if they did. And they’d been _dear boy_ and _little lass_ once, but of course they’ve long since outgrown that.

“We’ll have words later, my lord. Won’t we?” she presses when Andrew remains silent.

 

“Yes, Nanny.”

 

Tara giggles, delighted as always to see the adults being scolded by her nanny. It’s always fascinated her that Nanny Moira was their nanny as well and she often asks for stories about them as children.

 

John coughs to hide his smirk.

 

“ _Don’t!_ ” Andrew hisses once Nanny Moira and Tara have left. He turns to Kenna then. “It may anger her to hear it, but it’s true. Without her to keep him in check, he’s a bloody brat. _You’re not my father_ seems to be the only thing he can say to me lately.”

 

“He’s right at that rebellious age.” She recalls realizing at 14 that behaving well wasn’t getting her anywhere and she might as well do what she pleased, because it made no difference to Father.

 

Except Callum is too young to recall such treatment from him. But then Father died and they all left for Holyrood, leaving him with Nanny Moira, and now even Nanny Moira has left him. Nanny Moira, who was constant, who has always been there, even when Mother died and Father could barely look at them.

 

She feels quite selfish suddenly, focused on herself and her children and their situation in France as she has been, bringing Nanny Moira with her to France and not protesting when she insisted on staying on.

 

“So you left him behind?” she asks sharply. “To punish him?”

 

Andrew’s eyes flash fire. “With Aunt Fiona – I considered sending him to her, but she offered to come to Livingston House. She said she would enjoy returning home.”

 

Likely it was simply that Aunt Fiona had had more of a care for Callum’s feelings than his siblings had. 

 

And yet she knows she’s not being entirely fair to her older brother . . . Andrew is still young himself to be raising a boy that age, especially alone.

 

She hates to think how much she has cost her brothers. Handsome, clever Andrew, with his quietly fierce and loving heart and his title and wealth, surely would have been married by now, if not for the annulment of her marriage - how it rendered an alliance with their family a potential albatross around the necks of the women she would have wished to call sister, rather than the boon it once would have been - and everything that followed.

 

She’ll send for Callum when things settle down; it’s not right for them all to be together without him.

 

\---

 

Later that night, when it’s just the two of them in her bedchamber, Kenna tucks the covers carefully around Tara and herself.

 

“You said we would talk, Mama.”

 

“I did. Do you remember when we first left Livingston House to stay with Aunt Lola?” She begins running her fingers through Tara’s dark locks, so like her own, to soothe her to sleep.

 

“Of course. When the war started after Queen Mary died.” Certainly not _Aunt Mary_ , as she’d once requested, not after everything that happened.

 

Some of this she has already said. “Yes. Well, it was Queen Mary who was Scottish and inherited the throne from her father. Your father is French and was king of Scotland because he married her. But the rebellion against your father in Scotland wasn’t just because he is French. It was about who was Catholic and who was Protestant, too. The Scottish nobles who rebelled, most of them were Protestant and they didn’t want to have a Catholic king who wasn’t even Scottish after the queen died. That’s why there was the rebellion, which was why we went to Aunt Lola, so we’d be safe away from the fighting.”

 

“What’s the difference between Catholic and Protestant?”

 

“Catholics and Protestants all worship God, but worship him a little bit differently.”

 

“If it’s only a little bit different, then why does it matter so much?”

 

“Even though it’s only a little different, it matters very much to a lot of people.”

 

Tara worries her lip pensively. “But what does that have to do with Uncle Andrew and John?”

 

“John is Protestant.”

 

“And Uncle Andrew?”

 

“I’m not sure, really,” Kenna admits. She knows her brother has Protestant sympathies, but she’s not sure how much of that is true religious belief and how much of that is anger against the Catholic former king of Scotland.

 

“So they rebelled against Father?”

 

“No, your uncle stayed at home and kept us safe, remember? But John did, yes.”

 

Tara worries at her lip again. She has great affection for John, but the fourth commandment, drilled into her like all the others, is limited to _honor thy father and mother_. It does not include _honor thy mother’s almost-betrothed._ “So Father’s angry with John, but not Uncle Andrew?”

“I think he might be cross with your uncle as well.”

 

Based on his reception in the throne room, _cross_ is an understatement and she knows that her brother does not deserve that. Even if it were just over the rebellion – and she knows better than to think that – Andrew was no rebel. Andrew had nothing to do with the thing Bash is truly angry about, except allowing her relationship with John to deepen under his watch and Andrew can hardly be faulted for that.

 

“Why? He was cross at supper with Grandmother, too –”

 

That is typical Bash, taking his temper out on innocent parties.

 

Not that Diane is anyone’s idea of innocent, hers least of all.

 

“But that’s because she took down your portrait.”

 

“My portrait?” Kenna echoes in disbelief.

 

\---

 

After much taunting about his “advanced years” – she means to tease Bash out of the gloom that’s settled over them both of late – she asks what he wishes to have as a gift in honor of his 25th year of life.

 

“A portrait of you,” he says almost at once. It’s highly uncharacteristic, since he usually insists he doesn’t need gifts, that her company is gift enough or some similar sentiment. He must have wanted it for some time and, for whatever reason, hesitated to ask her to sit for one. “For my office.”

 

“I don’t know if I want to make it so you might miss me less when you work late nights,” she protests, even though she knows instantly that she will fulfill the request.

 

\---

 

If the portrait weren’t meant for Bash’s office, she might have considered something sensual, perhaps portraying her in her boudoir. But just because it can’t be scandalous doesn’t mean it must be boring. Instead, she chooses a mythological theme well-suited to the recipient. The resulting portrait is simultaneously true-to-life and very flattering.

 

Kenna is cast as the goddess Diana with bow and arrows, seeking her next quarry in a forest. Cinched with a golden belt that highlights her still-slim waist, the diaphanous, delicately draped white gown displays her slender but shapely arms and legs. Unlike in most paintings of the goddess of the hunt, however, she wears her long dark tresses loose, since she knows that is how her intended audience will prefer them.

 

\---

 

“Where was it?” she asks more calmly. She’d forgotten all about; if she had thought to remember it, she would have assumed Mary had disposed of it at some point.

 

“It was in his sitting room over the fireplace.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“He said to have it put back –” Tara pauses, her tone changing. “At once. It was his king voice.”

 

“His king voice?”

 

“It’s different when he talks to us, but when he was cross, it was like when he talks in the throne room.” Tara makes a distinctly annoyed noise. “I was cross with Grandmother, too. That wasn’t nice, what she said before.”

 

“It wasn’t,” Kenna agrees before injecting confidence into her tone. “But they’ll all make it up soon. Your uncle and John and even your grandmother,” she adds.

 

“Good,” Tara says sleepily, Kenna’s ministrations finally producing the desired effect. “I missed them.”

 

“So did I.”

 

“I love them.” Tara’s mumble manages to be touchingly earnest.

 

“Me, too.”

 

“And Father, even when he’s cross.” When Kenna doesn’t echo that sentiment, too, Tara blinks up at her, puzzled. “Don’t you?”

 

“Of course,” Kenna agrees too-hastily, because what else can she say to her daughter? “He gave me you.”

 

And that answer is, for once, enough to satisfy her too-curious daughter, whose eyes finally drift close.


	12. brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her self-imposed near-seclusion is interrupted when her maid brings her a breakfast tray and a message. Gabrielle informs her that King Antoine of Navarre and Princess Claude have arrived and that the king has personally invited her to attend the welcome party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the longest I've gone between updates. Sorry, folks! The story has taken some unexpected turns. But this is a longer one, so enjoy.

Once Tara is asleep, her maid Gabrielle enters to whisper to her that “Lord Huntley is waiting for you in the sitting room.”

 

What is it with the men in her life and visits at odd and inappropriate hours?

 

\---

 

And kisses without preamble, for that matter.

 

She pulls away and looks up at John, trying to gather her thoughts. “You know I can’t leave,” she says finally, regretfully.

 

“We were all but betrothed, Kenna,” he counters. His free hand lingers at his pocket and her heart clenches again, as it did earlier to see him with Tara.

 

\---

 

_I’ll tell them you and your brother outsmarted us. In turn, they must never know I was the one to warn you._

 

_I will never be able to thank you enough._

_I don’t do this for your thanks. I –_

_But still, I know what this could cost you and I – I –_

_Keep yourself and the children safe so that you can come home when it is all through and that will be thanks enough._

 

The _to me_ that followed _come home_ remained unspoken.

 

\---

 

 _Next I see you, I’ll have something for you I hope you’ll rather like_ , he promised when they said their farewells, the same words he’d said the last time they saw each other before the rebellion broke out. He traced a circle around her left ring finger.

 

 _For your sake, I hope I do_ , she teased. _I’ll count the days._ Then she’d kissed him goodbye, away from the carriage so the others wouldn’t see, before she and the children departed Livingston House ahead of the sun’s rising, making a promise and a pledge with the press of her lips that now she must break.

 

“I know,” she says, eyes sweeping over his familiar face, handsome and dear to her as ever despite the new scar at his temple that mars his previously unblemished visage. It bothers her less than the shadows in the striking blue eyes she’s always admired, because she knows he is perfectly safe now and because she is responsible for those shadows. “And you know I wanted that, so very much. But my place is here now.”

 

“With him?” He refers to Bash with as much distaste as Bash spoke to him this afternoon.

 

“With my children –”

 

John cares about her children as well; he’ll understand that, at least.

 

He turns solemn for a moment, because he does.

 

“Whose place is with their father.”

 

John stares at her, face suddenly and carefully blank and voice overly even. “And their father gave you a duchy, did he not, Your Grace? For . . . services rendered to the Crown, perhaps?”

 

Despite her own often wicked tongue and thoughts, it takes her a moment to understand the innuendo. When she comprehends what he’s actually accused her of, it feels like he’s throwing the past he’d never held against her in her face. And despite the fact that she actually has considered seducing Bash so that he won’t try to take her children from her – didn’t, in truth, only for lack of opportunity – she’s so deeply offended that she slaps him.

 

John looks stunned for a long moment, raising a hand to his cheek, and apologetic, as though her slap has cleared whatever awful thing came over him. “I’ve insulted you. I apologize. That . . . was not well done of me. It wasn’t right. But I must admit – you’ve wounded me.”

 

“Your face or your pride, my lord?” she snaps, angry still. For some reason she expects him to attempt a witty remark. Perhaps _neither, since you obviously learned from Andrew_.

It was John’s looks and actions that always spoke of wanting her, of caring for her children, of loving her brother as though he were his own. But now he uses his words. “My heart,” he corrects softly.

 

He –

 

“I love you.”

 

He’s never said that before. She knew John wanted to marry her, but he never actually –

 

Suddenly she wants to cry more than anything else in the world, but there’s no point.

 

\---

 

“That was quite the . . . welcome yesterday,” Greer says, entering her bedchamber, where she is “laid quite low with a headache.”

 

She pouts. “Gabrielle wasn’t supposed to let anyone in.” She can’t plead sick if everyone sees that she’s perfectly fine. She already feels guilty about the show of illness she put on for Tara so as not to put her in the position of knowingly lying to her father.

 

“I told her I’ve known you longer than she’s been alive and she had _better_ let me in.”

 

“Intimidating my maid, Lady Castleroy? How positively uncivilized of you.”

 

Greer retorts in the same tone. “Don’t try to change the subject, Your Grace, I’m too clever for that by half.”

 

She sighs, the levity draining from her. “John came to see me last night and he . . . he alluded to the proposal he didn’t get to make before the rebellion. And I just –” She sighs again, lost for words.

 

Greer’s sigh matches hers as she plops down beside her. “Oh, Kenna.”

 

She rests her head on Greer’s shoulder and Greer runs sure, soothing fingers through her hair as though Kenna were one of her children, rather than a woman grown and a mother herself.

 

\---

 

For a few days after, she continues to plead illness for their usual breakfasts and otherwise keeps to herself, refusing to see anyone but her children, Nanny Moira, and her lady’s maid. Her brother, Nanny Moira tells her, is particularly unimpressed by her sudden craving for solitude, but she needs time alone with her thoughts.

 

Which she gets, mostly, although they only lead her in circles, and which she half-wishes would be interrupted again by Greer, who she knows will probably not be deterred for long.

 

\---

 

And then her self-imposed near-seclusion is interrupted one morning when Gabrielle brings her a message with her breakfast tray. Her maid informs her that King Antoine of Navarre and Princess Claude have arrived and that the king has personally invited her to attend the welcome party.

 

Though it’s not worded as such, Kenna knows it’s as much a command as the initial invitation to return to court. It makes something like anger wind its way through her veins, how she must bend to him, how he made no such grand welcoming gesture for . . . not for her, it would have been odd, but for their children. But as Greer reminded her when she first arrived, they are still quite dependent on Bash’s good will. She will not antagonize him, however angry his actions make her.

 

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t think on it all.

 

It’s all exceedingly strange. Catherine had wanted her daughter far from court, but had called her back – her last child, with no others left to her – when Diane arrived to rule in Bash’s name. Claude left after Catherine’s death and has not been back since.

 

And King Antoine . . . he is Claude’s brother-in-law, but it is no secret that Claude and Condé do not get on, so it’s a wonder that he should have anything to do with his brother’s wife. Unless they’re lovers . . .

 

She’s never met the King of Navarre, but his reputation precedes him, as Claude’s does her.

 

\---

 

At a quarter of an hour before the party is set to begin, Kenna is touching up her appearance with only Tara, who begs to try her paints despite her repeated refusals, for company.

 

She must admit that Gabrielle was wise to urge her to wear green, she concludes, staring at herself critically in the mirror. It suits her. But she is having a difficult time selecting jewels.

 

“Mama, what about –”

 

She knows what Tara is about to suggest because she owns the perfect earrings, but she feels that wearing them might be . . . misleading.

 

There’s a knock at the door.

 

“Come in, Greer,” she calls. She’d sent Gabrielle to Greer to see if Greer might advise her.

 

“It’s not Greer. I’m sorry to disappoint,” she hears a familiar voice suddenly at her right hand.

 

“What –”

 

“There was no one outside, so I took the liberty of letting myself in. I came to escort you to the party. I also wanted to make sure you got this beforehand.” He hasn’t sought her out this way since she told him about John.

 

She turns her head slightly to look at him.

 

He’s holding out a flat black velvet box with an artfully tied white ribbon. “For you.”

 

She accepts the box, but allows Tara to undo the ribbon and open it. She nearly gasps.

 

In the box lies a necklace of emeralds and diamonds that rivals the grape-sized amethysts Lola received as a wedding gift from her impostor first husband, the ones Kenna had once envied until Lola admitted that the jewels were actually paste.

 

“Oh,” Tara sighs happily.

 

A necklace of emeralds and diamonds that is a perfect match to the earrings he gave her on Tara’s birthday immediately following his elevation as Earl of Mar, the gift he said he wished he could have given her years earlier, even if it could never be as precious as the child she’d given him.

 

She cherished those earrings and the sentiment that accompanied them. And they were certainly worthy of a countess.

 

But this is a necklace not even a queen who’d just birthed the heir to the throne would turn up her nose at.

 

“It’s lovely, Bash. Thank you,” she says so evenly that she is proud of her poise.

 

She puts on the earrings herself and allows him to clasp the necklace for her.

 

She looks at herself critically in the mirror again, eyes flicking to Bash standing expectantly behind her, a glint in his eyes that takes her back to Holyrood, to the possessive yet gentle hand that found its way to the small of her back whenever a male gaze lingered too long or too boldly upon her, a hand whose warmth she could always feel even through the fabric of her gown.  
  
Although his hands remain at his sides now, he could not be laying claim to her more clearly if he  
shouted it.  

 

\---

 

At the garden party, all eyes turn to them upon their entrance. It should not surprise her; it was always that way when Henry or Catherine or Francis or Mary entered a gathering, regardless of who accompanied them, except she can also feel how every eye lingers over the necklace that rests in the dips of her collarbone, so long that the beautiful bauble feels even more like a collar than it did when Bash presented it to her.

 

As soon as she spots Greer and Lord Castleroy, she peels away from Bash as quickly as she can, when some courtier whose name she cannot remember attempts to monopolize his attention, ignoring the frown in his eyes that does not match the somewhat stiff half-smile with which he favors their audience. Once she is with Greer, whose brows rise barely perceptibly at the sight of her necklace, and Lord Castleroy, who greets her kindly, enthusing about “how happy your return has made Greer” and what joy that brings him, she waves her brother and John over.

 

Andrew raises an eyebrow at her, asking questions she cannot answer now, and John’s eyes, which had lit up at the sight of her despite the way they parted, dim and his mouth flattens into a thin line, both clearly noting her rather extraordinary new necklace and guessing how she’s come to possess it.

 

Greer elbows her husband subtly, but seemingly quite hard because he stumbles just a bit. Lord Castleroy, bless him, begins talking their ears off about his favorite topic besides Greer and their family, inquiring minutely as to the changing price of pepper in Scotland over the past year.

 

 _Thank you_ , she mouths to Greer, as the tension that enveloped them dissipates into shared bemusement. She lingers out of the way the four of them – easy enough despite the attention she has suddenly regained, as other courtiers are still giving Lords Tarras and Huntley a wide berth due to their icy reception. 

 

But eventually Bash catches her eye and approaches their group. He greets Greer and Lord Castleroy briefly, but warmly, with a genuine smile, nods coolly at Andrew, and positively icily at John. “You should meet Antoine, Kenna.” His expression when he mentions the King of Navarre speaks volumes of how he feels about this unexpected visit.

 

Interesting, that.

 

Greer gives her a look that nearly screams _behave_ and she takes Bash’s offered arm.

 

\---

 

Bash leads her toward Antoine and Claude, who stand with Diane.

 

Diane is obviously in her element as hostess and royal mother, delighting in the obsequiousness with which she is now treated and Kenna must try very hard to resist the effort to roll her eyes.  

 

Claude is still quite pretty and as petite as she remembers, but not as slender as she used to be. And absent is the languid, detached, perpetually debauched air. If anything, Claude seems somewhat anxious, with her hand pressed to her stomach as though to calm butterflies.

 

Nerves have always made Kenna’s stomach jump, too. How precisely will Bash introduce her?

 

_Claude, I'd like you to meet my wife, Kenna._

_Princess Claude. It's an honor._

 

A moment’s pause as he seems to ask himself the same question and Kenna decides to take matters into her own hands. They all know precisely who she is. “King Antoine, it is an honor.” She lets go of Bash to curtsey.

 

“But the pleasure is all mine,” Antoine says warmly, lifting her hand to his lips once she’s straightened.

Antoine is undeniably handsome, but trying perhaps a bit too hard to be charming. In another life, she might have been charmed by him, but she is not so easily taken in now. “That is very kind of you, Your Majesty.” She turns her attention to Claude. “Princess Claude.”

Claude nods only after snatching a glass off a passing servant’s tray, seeming to change her mind, and putting it back nearly immediately. “Lady Kenna.”

 

“Your Grace,” Bash corrects tightly.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Kenna is a duchess now and you will address her correctly, Claude.”

 

“I hope I’ve not offended you, Your Grace,” Claude says sweetly.

 

“Not at all, Your Highness,” Kenna replies just as sweetly. “It is good to see you returned to court.”

 

“How could I not return after learning my dear brother’s children are returned to him at last? My own niece and nephew, and I’ve never even met them.” Claude is not looking at Kenna or even at Bash when she says that, but at Antoine, until her gaze turns to Bash and she places a hand on Bash’s arm, the arm Kenna just released. Perhaps she means to needle her kingly brother-in-law about his childlessness by showing such interest in her kingly brother’s children – a strange thing to do, considering her own childless marriage.

 

Despite the presents – a rocking horse of exceptionally fine craftsmanship and a remarkably lifelike doll with chestnut curls and vivid green eyes strikingly like Tara’s own – that arrived after their departure for France, Kenna remains skeptical of Claude’s sudden interest in her children. There must be some reason she can’t discern for it. Still, she can’t be completely ungracious. “Of course you must meet them whenever you’d like.”

 

Claude’s eyes remain firmly fastened on Bash when she replies. “I’m told you set aside each morning to break your fast _en famille_ , Bash. If I may join you tomorrow –”

 

“Perhaps another day,” Bash says reluctantly. “I’ve other plans tomorrow.”

 

Kenna knows those “other plans” are likely to be a lie – the breakfasts have continued without her despite her “illness” – but she doesn’t contradict him.

 

Claude pouts, but nods.

Of course, she mustn’t forget to greet Diane. She wonders if it is irrational to consider Diane ordering the removal of her portrait from the royal suite tantamount to a declaration of war. Either way, she cannot let on. “Diane, how lovely to see you.”

 

“Likewise,” Diane replies with a beatific smile, even though she is more likely than not lying through her teeth.

That is when Condé joins their party. “Hello, everyone.” He nods a greeting at his brother and presses a cool, dutiful kiss to his wife’s free hand, showing her none of the warmth with which he greeted her little niece upon their arrival at court.

 

Kenna can see Claude tense again, although she accepts her husband’s indifferent attention. But she also keeps her grasp on Bash, who she immediately drags off to speak to some courtier she spots at a distance.

 

Condé asks her to take a turn about the garden party after they watch sister and brother depart.

 

Surprised and half-relieved that she won’t have to make awkward conversation with Diane, she nods her agreement.

 

\---

 

“You don’t know their history, do you?” Condé asks in an undertone as they stroll in the opposite direction. She can feel eyes on her and she doesn’t know if they belong to Bash or John or her brother or Greer. Perhaps even Claude, except that Claude cares not what her husband does to amuse himself, if Greer has the right of it.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“They were rather . . . closer than most siblings when they were younger, the king and my wife.”

 

It takes a moment before she catches the preposterous insinuation. _Impossible_.

 

“I don’t follow.”

 

“I didn’t want to be so blunt, but they . . . were together. Claude has been promiscuous since she was very young, but I suspect it was the king who had her virtue.”

 

“You’re lying. Or mad,” she says immediately.

 

Bash would never. He despises his sister. That – even more than the foulness of sleeping with one’s own sibling – is what convinces her that Condé lies. She could _never_ imagine thinking of her older brother as a man.

 

“She told me herself after we consummated our marriage, years ago. _You’re the worst lover I’ve ever had. Even my bastard brother is better_ , she said. I know the former to be false because I’ve pleased every woman I’ve ever had –”

 

“You don’t need to persuade me of your prowess, since I will not be one of them,” Kenna says, her instinct to parry coming through even in this mad moment.

 

Condé huffs half a laugh before continuing. “And I thought the latter a lie to scandalize me into setting her aside, but he turned so many colors when I brought it up to prove just how vexing she was that I knew it to be true at once.” 

 

“You’re lying,” she insists, for lack of anything better to say.

 

“It will be harder for you to accept the truth of what they were, because of what he is to you,” Condé says, sounding nearly apologetic.

 

 _What he_ was _to me_ , she corrects silently. “Then why are you telling me this?”

 

“You were Mary’s friend. She cared for you and I cared for her,” Condé adds quietly. “And you should not be blindsided by the sort of people they are.”

 

Yes, Mary took her husband from her and took from her daughter her father and her name but Mary _cared_ for her.

 

 _She acted as she did because your husband asked her to_ , a rational voice reminds her. _They believed they were saving your life._

 

She has nothing to say in response, so she merely thanks Condé.


	13. fighters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her first feeling is shock, the second is hurt, but the last and strongest is rage.

Condé clearly understands and returns her to Bash, who has long since extricated himself from his sister’s grip.

 

His sister – no, he always insisted on calling her his _half-_ sister, which he never did with his other siblings, is what Condé claims why? – seems much more at ease than she has all evening, with . . . Leith.

 

 _Hmm._ What will Greer think of that?

 

So many familiar faces, all together again.

 

\---

 

At Bash’s side, she sets aside Condé’s unwelcome confidence and focuses instead on venting the displeasure that has simmered in her veins since she was “invited” to the welcome festivities for Antoine and Claude. “You stage quite a welcome for the man you strove to keep off the throne and the sister you say you despise and yet did nothing when the children you claim to love so well were returned to you after years apart.”

 

Arm looped through his again, she can feel the way his entire body tenses at the accusation.

 

“Did you really think this was _my_ doing? Claude invited herself on Antoine’s little jaunt to greet the new king of France and my mother insisted on all this . . . nonsense,” he replies, waving his free arm expansively.

 

Against her will, she laughs at how henpecked he sounds.

 

He rolls his eyes before joining in her laughter – laughter that ends when John approaches, saying that Nanny Moira has sent her maid with the message that the children are asking for her.

 

Whatever levity remained in Bash’s eyes drains. “Oh, it must be their bedtime already.”

 

“Yes, she did mention that.”

 

“So likely the message really was they asked for us both. We’ve a routine, you know, Kenna and the children and I.” Never mind that their routine has been put on hold because of her “illness.”

 

John’s eyes darken.

 

“You must speak to your maid, Kenna. Relaying an incomplete message and giving it to a third person rather than coming directly to us is poor form.”

 

“Gabrielle surely knows that Kenna trusts me,” John replies a touch too evenly, his words deliberately showing how familiarly they behave with one another – he knows her maid by name, he refers to her informally still despite her elevation in rank and their lack of formal relationship. “After all, Your Majesty, I think I’ve proven that I can be relied upon when it comes to her children.”

 

Bash’s tone matches John’s precisely. “And we thank you for ensuring that your comrades’ plans to harm our children came to naught, Lord Huntley. We are most grateful.”

 

She can see John’s jaw clench at the reminder of what she shares (will always share) with Bash as Bash pulls her away, back toward the castle where the children await them.

 

 _I’m sorry_ , she mouths over her shoulder.

 

What a strange evening it’s been.

 

\---

 

They arrive to find Andrew already there and she is immediately reminded that, around her children at least, her older brother isn’t always the slightly over-serious man he’s become.

 

Andrew is playing pony for a delighted Charlie, who clings to his neck.

 

She announces their presence wryly. “This is hardly what I expected when we realized it was bedtime.”

 

When she scoops Charlie up off Andrew, Charlie tries to wriggle away. “Mama, _no_.”

 

She only holds him tighter.

 

“Pony,” he whines pathetically when he realizes she’s not about to let him go.

 

“No more pony riding for you tonight,” Andrew teases. He sits up gratefully with a laugh that’s cut short when he notices Bash. Suddenly he looks wary and embarrassed at once, even though he’d seen Bash with Tara just so plenty of times when she was that age.

 

Bash was the sort of father who carried their daughter about on his shoulders and tossed her in the air whenever she wished, eliciting delighted shrieks from Tara and horrified admonitions from Kenna.

 

She looks at Bash then, whose tense and haughty demeanor when speaking with John had given way to a relaxed, quiet excitement as they put further distance between themselves and the party on their way to see the children.

 

It seems those feelings have been wiped clean as he looks at her brother, still sat on the floor looking up at him in surprise, but she cannot identify what has him so discomposed all of a sudden. She understands his anger with John – the anger of the king and the jealousy of the man – but to be angry at Andrew borders on irrational.

 

Tara, seeming not to notice the sudden tension, reminds her younger brother of his manners, clearly thinking that might delay their bedtime. “What do you say?”

 

“Pleassssssse, Mama.” Charlie pouts, green eyes pleading as he looks up at her. But his plea is smothered in a sudden yawn and all at once her intrepid young rider looks ready for bed.

 

She pitches her voice as soothingly as possible. “Not tonight, my sleepy boy.” It works, the struggle going out of Charlie’s small body as she holds him close and sways barely perceptibly.

 

Andrew finally stands and busies himself brushing invisible dirt off his breeches.

 

She hands Charlie off to Bash, thinking to soothe his ruffled feathers, but Charlie, though half-asleep, mutters something and tries to wriggle away from Bash too. “No.”

 

“We’ll go –”

 

“No,” Charlie mutters again, more vehemently. “Want ’Drew,” he continues, clear as day.

 

_Oh no._

 

Over Charlie’s head, she can easily see Bash’s stricken look. His eyes close for half a moment, as if he’s in pain, and in the next, he’s affixed a sickly smile to his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It seems he’s missed you.”

 

“I suppose, yes,” Andrew replies uneasily.

 

Charlie, in the meantime, grumpily pushes at his father’s chest.

 

Finally, Andrew seems to get over his hesitation. “May I?”

 

Charlie calms as soon as he finds himself in Andrew’s arms.  

 

“He’s a stubborn one, just wants what he wants when he wants it,” Andrew explains, trying too hard at geniality. “Like his mother.”

“Rather more like his father, I think,” Kenna disagrees, trying to match her brother’s tone.  

 

“Tomorrow he’ll probably refuse to let Tara out of his sight.”

 

“Of course,” Bash agrees hollowly.

 

Her son is stubborn, that much is true, but he also adores Andrew. He rarely likes to be held by anyone save her or Nanny Moira, but it’s obvious that Bash was not wrong he said Charlie missed Andrew.

 

She can’t decide if Andrew’s words are a well-meant lie to avoid causing further hurt to a man he once called friend or a courtier’s tactic to shield himself from royal displeasure. Perhaps they are both.

 

Really, Andrew is the closest thing her son has had to a father since birth, and being confronted by that must inflict a very particular sort of pain on Bash.

 

She suspects Tara, frighteningly perceptive child that she is, realizes it, too, because she gives her father a tight hug when he kisses her goodnight.

 

\---

 

After they leave Tara’s room, she means to tell Bash something comforting, that Charlie is still getting used to France ( _used to_ you), that Andrew is an old, familiar face and thus comforting to a child who’s been uprooted from the life he’s always known and is too young to understand why.

 

But Bash speaks first. “You’re selfish.”

 

“Selfish?” she echoes in disbelief, forgetting every kind thing she meant to say.

 

“Even after seeing what it could be like to be a family again, you’re refusing the opportunity to secure our children’s future for Huntley’s sake. I can see that he has his charms and for all I know he may impress in bed, but –”

 

Her first feeling is shock, the second is hurt, but the last and strongest is rage. “How dare you? Everything I’ve done in the years since you ended our marriage I’ve done for my children. _My_ children. Until John, I was alone because I couldn’t – wouldn’t – risk tainting their lives by bringing an unworthy man into mine. And you call me selfish!”

 

“Selfish because you hesitate now that I can –”

 

“Just because you are their father and a king now doesn’t mean you are worthy,” she interrupts coldly. “They need more than that! _I_ need more than that! I need more than a man who thinks fine furnishings and poorly prepared Scottish dishes and gilded storybooks and ponies and duchies and _necklaces_ are enough to undo his mistakes!” At that, she is half-tempted to rip the bloody necklace off.

 

His eyes turn to ice as they did in the throne room when Andrew and John arrived.

 

But she won’t back down from his anger. Just because Bash has clearly become unused to hearing hard truths doesn’t mean she will spare his feelings anymore, Greer’s admonishments be damned.

 

“So you consider doing the only thing I thought would keep you alive a mistake? Because I don’t and I never will!” As is his wont, he stalks away before she can say another word.

 

\---

_I dragged Lord Barnard into my offices, presented him with the evidence in this ledger. But the proof of Doisneau's murder, the page was torn out. And it was obvious that Barnard knew about this before he ever entered the room. Give it to me._

_I can't. I burned it. I didn't do it for the bribe. I won't take anything from them. I did it to save your life. Barnard's wife swore that you would be killed if her husband were ever prosecuted._

_Kenna, we are better people than the Barnards. We have to be. We just need the courage to fight._

_Not if fighting means dying. I won't risk the loss of you. I can't._

_I can't blame you for wanting your husband alive. I should love you for it. I do._

\---

_Then why are you telling me this?_

_You were Mary’s friend. She cared for you and I cared for her._ _And you should not be blindsided by the sort of people they are._

 

Kenna saw the letter Condé wrote to Mary long ago, after she announced his betrothal to Claude.

 

 _I_ _know I agreed to marry Claude on behalf of France, but I've realized that I can't. My heart lies with another. I’ve fallen in love with a queen._

The letter she burnt, not long before she and Bash were banished from court. Mary loved Francis and yet . . . Kenna could not allow it to fall into Mary’s hands when Mary was so susceptible, when Mary’s marriage was falling apart at the seams.

 

Now, she wonders how different it all might have been if she hadn’t. Could Mary’s pain and her own and even Bash’s and her children’s have been avoided?

 

_If I look back, I am lost._

 

So the invocation of Mary worries her because Condé cared quite deeply for Mary. It means that that may be the first sincere thing Condé's said to her since her return to court.

She tosses and turns the entire night.

\---

 

“I am here to see the king,” Kenna tells the guards outside the royal suite imperiously the following morning, head held high.

 

“We’ll have to see if the king is accepting visitors, Your Grace,” the guard says evenly. He goes into check while his comrade remains without, as though she will rush through the doors uninvited if not watched.

 

“His Majesty will see you,” says the first guard when he reemerges.

 

\---

 

Bash is standing as she walks in. Although a king owes no one that courtesy, it is one of the handful of gentlemanly instincts he’s always possessed, despite the rough edges of old, and it seems even a crown did not render him rude in this particular way. “Kenna. This is a surprise.” He waves a hand at the comfortable seats by the fire.

 

She sinks gracefully into one of the settees while he sits in an armchair. She cannot help but look up and notice her portrait before returning her gaze to Bash. The circles under his eyes match those she just saw in her mirror as she dressed.

 

“I can call for some food –”

 

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry. I just – I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, and I can acknowledge when I’m wrong.” She does not _always_ need Greer to guide her. “I was unfair before. I’ve been unfair, to punish you for doing what you thought necessary to keep me from harm. Obviously I don’t think saving my life was a mistake. What I remain unhappy about is the fact that you didn’t see fit to tell me why you acted as you did back then. I’ve always been more practical than you. I wouldn’t have liked it, but I would have understood. Don’t you remember that I destroyed evidence so that you couldn’t prosecute Lord Barnard when his wife swore it would mean your death?”

 

“Do _you_ recall how I reacted when you admitted that? I feared this time I would be the one protesting that fighting wasn’t worth it if it meant dying – _you_ dying – over your opposition. Both of us – we’ve always had more of a care for each other’s safety than our own.”

_The king wants Bash back at court, but we don’t think it’s wise to return._

_Is it prudence or pride that keeps you away?_

_Both. I won’t pretend I’m not angry over the way the king’s treated me, but I fear that the next time he suspects me over some piddling rumor or has a sudden turn of temper, he may not be satisfied with taking my position at court and sending us away._

_Do you truly think your own brother would have you killed?_

_I’ve no doubt that he would. What I_ fear _is that Kenna might join me on the block._

 

She’s always certainly cared to save her own skin, particularly now that there are the children to think about, but Bash isn’t wrong. It was concern for him that made her so willing to flee to Scotland when Francis sought to compel him to return to court, while it was concern for her that motivated him.

 

And yet – “I understand. But I need you to understand that it hurt me to think that you could turn your back on us for ambition or for love of Mary. It would have been easier to bear if I’d known the truth.”

 

“I –”

 

“I know. You say you kept it from me to make it easier for me to move on. And yet you punish me now for doing so, even though neither of us could have predicted you’d be free again someday and have power enough to do as you wished – even if I _had_ known the truth.”

 

Bash stares into the crackling flames and then up at her portrait before turning his gaze on her. “I’ll admit I’ve been unfair as well, punishing you for doing what I wished for you, because I find that I –” The stilted words begin tumbling out. “I can’t stand it when confronted with the reality of it, to hear you speak of it, with the man himself.”

 

“I – I’m sorry.”

 

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I made my choices and I asked what happened after. It’s not your fault I didn’t like the answer.”

 

She doesn’t know what else to say to that, so she presses on to the other thing that’s bothered her since the previous evening. “There’s something else I’ve been thinking about also. In keeping with the promise I asked of you moving forward, that you be honest with me in all things, were you and Claude ever . . . overly close?”

 

Bash has only spoken of Claude once since Kenna returned to France, before his anger over John ruined the progress they’d made, but it was obvious that Bash has as little love for his younger sister as ever.

 

Kenna has never understood it, considering how deep his affection for Henry and Catherine’s other children ran. Now, after her conversation with Condé, she has begun to think that it arises from shame.

 

\---

 

“Claude may have been Catherine’s daughter, but could you imagine her as queen?”

 

“I suspect Catherine would sooner have killed Claude herself.”

 

“She wouldn’t have done, not that it would’ve mattered.”

 

“You believed she killed Francis.”

 

“I’ve no doubt of it. But that was when she had two other sons left – presumably sane sons – in whose name she could rule France. Aggravating though Claude is, killing her would have served no purpose.”

 

“Will she return?”

 

“I think it’s clear to her that I don’t want her here.”

 

“And yet you keep her husband here.”

 

At first, she’d been horrified that Bash would allow Condé at court, knowing the role Lola alleges the Bourbons played in Jean’s death, but then she recognized that there was wisdom in his decision to keep his enemies close. They must simply make sure not to let them into their confidence as Francis did for a time at Mary’s behest, resulting in Condé marrying into the royal family.

 

“The better to keep an eye on any plots he may hatch, though it seems my support for an annulment of their marriage and of his claim to Navarre may be sufficient to earn his loyalty.”

 

“Navarre?”

 

“The throne is Queen Jeanne’s by right of birth, but Condé’s brother, Antoine, was granted the crown matrimonial when they married. They have no children and Jeanne is sickly. Antoine will keep the throne after she dies and his heirs will inherit after him. Antoine’s quite the philanderer, but only has one bastard to show for it. While Condé is . . . skeptical that the boy is truly Antoine’s blood, Antoine would likely have him legitimized when Jeanne dies.”

 

As Mary must have feared Bash would do with _her_ children.

 

“So as matters stand, Condé is his brother’s rightful heir, and to keep him loyal, you would say it is better for the legitimate brother to inherit over the legitimized son, if Antoine should not have legitimate children from a future marriage.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you see no problem with any of this? If you openly support Condé’s claim, you’re walking into a trap. He could use a similar argument against your claim to the throne in an attempt to overthrow you.”

 

And even if he failed against Bash, he could use similar arguments again later. While she has yet to agree to marry Bash, she knows what their marriage would mean for their children and what choosing _not_ to marry him would mean for them . . .

 

“Then Condé – and any children he has with whatever woman he marries after you facilitate the annulment of his marriage to your sister – would follow him.”

 

Bash gives her an appraising look. “I’ve not yet committed to a course of action. But don’t you see? This is exactly why I need you at my side, to save me from my own folly – to save our children from it.”

 

She knows he is smarter than that now. She realizes that he has likely already considered everything she just said; she has seen how the years they’ve spent apart have disabused him of any naïveté, as they have her. So she certainly won’t be tricked into giving him an answer to the question he’s alluding to again for the first time in quite a while until she has more of her own.

 

But she will play along for now. She knows that the most obvious answer is to refuse his support for an annulment and offer support in the Navarre matter, but only privately until Antoine is dead and conditioned in such a way that Condé could not later use it against him to take his throne. But she settles for making a thoughtful noise before asking a rather cynical question with a fairly obvious answer. “You said Condé believes the boy is not truly his nephew.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So wouldn’t it be better for Condé to bribe some other companion of the boy’s mother to say he fathered the child so we don’t even have to deal with him?” _We._ She’s starting to think of herself and Bash as a pair again, partners. She must get a hold of herself.“Get him dismissed on the grounds of not being Antoine’s blood?”

 

“The man could tell tales –”

“Dead men tell no tales. If it should come to that,” she adds quickly.

 

He looks as repulsed as she feels, but he doesn’t disagree. Then he nods.

 

While it sickens her how easily the words came, she cannot regret them. If Bash is endangered, so are her children.

 

Once, she’d been willing to reveal Diane’s treasonous actions to take her place at Henry’s side for good. Once, she’d been willing to scheme and lie and give her body to a man who terrified her for her country’s sake. Necessary though those actions seemed, even they felt like she was breaking off and giving away little pieces of her soul.

 

Murder is far worse. But for her children she is willing to do _anything_.

 

Suddenly, again, she understands Catherine.


	14. penitent and confessor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a strange way, it makes her feel better, seeing the things he is capable of doing for those he cares for.

"There's something else I've been thinking about also. In keeping with the promise I asked of you moving forward, that you be honest with me in all things, were you and Claude ever . . . overly close?"

 

Bash somehow pales and flushes at the same time and she knows at once that Condé did not lie. “I – why would you ask that?”

 

“Condé –”

 

He breathes out in an angry huff. “Of course Condé. Because Claude isn’t satisfied with having tricked me, she must tell the husband she despises of my foolish –”

 

There must be a reasonable explanation. Perhaps Claude came to him in the dark, and he thought she was someone else. Perhaps – “Tricked you how?”

 

“I was quite drunk and she seduced me and convinced me that it wasn’t wrong because Henry wasn’t actually my father.”

 

“Don’t say that so loudly!” If such a rumor spread, it could put his whole reign at risk. He would have no right to the throne if he were not Henry’s son.

 

“Kenna, it was obviously untrue!”

 

“Then why would you have believed her?”

 

“I was angry with him and susceptible because of it and Claude took advantage of that. We were close as children and when I returned from the Italian wars, I vented my anger with Henry to her.”

 

 _Not Francis?_ But she knows better than to ask that question now. After their banishment, just the mention of his brother used to be enough to put him in a foul mood. “Why were you angry with him? You were close before he went mad.”

 

“We were, but I never felt quite the same toward him after he ordered me to assassinate Condé’s brother. Really, I shouldn’t have been so surprised when he forced us to m –”

 

“Condé’s brother –?”

 

“Not Antoine. Marcus. The eldest.”

 

“Why?”

 

Bash sighs. “Henry and Catherine’s marriage was childless for ten years before Francis. Of course, queens are always blamed in such cases, but you know I’m not all that much older than . . . than Francis was. Because Henry’s relationship with my mother predated his marriage to Catherine, until I came along there were whispers that he was sterile alongside those that called Catherine barren. Either way, Marcus was heir presumptive for nearly a decade and the Bourbons’ ascent seemed near-guaranteed.”

 

But why would Henry want to kill the man all those years later, once he had three legitimate sons to follow him?

 

“But at the time Henry ordered me to kill him, there’d long ceased to be concerns about Francis’s health and there were Charles and little Henry after him. I’ve never understood why Henry suddenly felt so threatened by Marcus, but I did as he bid and it wasn’t until all was said and done that I allowed myself to be angry that my father treated me no better than some hired assassin. It shook me so much to do it that I didn’t even do a clean job of it – I’ve heard that Marcus lingered and suffered terribly for ages after. I did get better at it after that,” he finishes bitterly.

 

“You –”

 

“For all his talk of great affection of me, Francis was not above allowing me to kill in his name. He didn’t command me to do it as Henry did, but who else would do it and keep the secret afterwards? So much of what I kept from you before we were banished was dark deeds committed in Francis’s name to protect his secrets – killing Lord Montgomery, for one, to hide the fact that it was Francis, not Montgomery, who’d dealt Henry the deadly blow during the joust.” He won’t look at her when he’s done.

 

In a strange way, it makes her feel better, seeing the things he is capable of doing for those he cares for. Even when she is angry with him, she knows him to be a good man at his core, and if he can do such things for love, then perhaps she need not feel so sickened by her own impulses. But she does not know what to say to that, because it is obvious those “dark deeds” past weigh heavily on him. “Oh, Bash.”

 

She finds herself looking up at her portrait, as if the image of her younger self will give her the answers she can’t seem to find in the present. 

 

Answers that don’t come despite the time they allow themselves, until it is time to join the children for a breakfast during which Tara keeps up a steady stream of chatter to fill the silence.

 

\---

 

She’s just put down a note from Claude with an invitation to supper for her and the children when Gabrielle informs her that she has a visitor. Claude’s note does not mention Bash or Diane or her husband or his brother being included in the supper and she is not sure how she feels about spending an evening with only Claude and two young, innocent children who will probably nevertheless be able to sense the tension between them. But she cannot ignore it as Claude did her many notes before their banishment, even now that she knows what she knows about Claude and Bash’s history.  

 

Once she has composed a reply, she steels herself for her unexpected visitor.

 

\---

 

Reluctantly and only out of guilt provoked by her memories of burning his heartfelt letter nearly a decade ago, she welcomes Condé despite the fact that he has arrived in her suite uninvited.

 

“Your Grace –”

 

She eyes him warily. “Let’s not stand on ceremony.”

 

“Then Kenna –”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I know our last conversation ended poorly, but I just wanted to warn you –”

 

“Warn me?” she echoes.

 

“You knew Henry. You saw the beginnings of Francis’s own madness and banishing his brother really was just the beginning. Mary loved him, but she was so very afraid of him by the end. And she loved her child more.”

 

“Her child?”

 

“She was pregnant. The extent of Francis’s madness wasn’t well-known outside of court, but he’d taken a turn for the worse and word was starting to spread among the nobles. You were not here, but I am sure your old friends and their husbands could easily enough corroborate that. With the rising Protestant discontent, Mary feared France would go up in flames before she was brought to bed of the child and there would be nothing left for any of them when Francis was done.”

 

_I think . . . I think he was poisoned. No one bleeds like that from an ear infection. And I think Catherine did it._

 

_My God, there’s no way –_

_And I think she was right to do it. From what happened before we left, what’s been written to you these past months, and what I’ve been hearing from other sources, he was going the way of Henry, and the last thing we need – France needs – is another mad king on the throne. Catherine de Medici is many things – and many of them terrible – but she is most of all two things: a devoted mother and a frightfully sane woman. If she did it, it had to be done. Better a sane serpent as regent than a madman as king._

 

Kenna feels short of breath. _No._ Mary couldn’t have. She loved Francis – loved him enough to marry his brother when she believed she would be the death of him, knowing he would never forgive her for it. “So –”

 

“She asked for my help. I could never deny her anything, but I hated to do it. Even though I loved Francis’s wife, I thought him a good man, who loved her well. But he was a good man who went mad. The man he was did not deserve it, but the man he became required it.”

 

Required _it_? Required _assassination_? That is what Condé means, isn’t it?

 

It hits her then that if Condé speaks the truth, Nostradamus’s prophecy came true in the end, though none of them could have guessed precisely how it would come about. She wonders where he is now. When she looks down at her lap, she realizes that her hands are shaking. She must control herself.

 

Condé must have some goal that she cannot yet discern. He _must_ , because he has just taken a tremendous risk in making such a confession to her. She could run straight to Bash and tell him that Condé has confessed to killing Francis. For all that Bash deeply resents Francis’s treatment of him, he is king now and he could not suffer a regicide to live. He would have no proof but her word, but she does not doubt that Bash would take her word over Condé’s.

 

 

Condé finally speaks again. “Pray his brother doesn’t go the same way. I do.”

 

She hates that Condé’s words play into her old fears, the fear that for years kept her from having another child, and still she does not understand why he is telling her these things, other than to make her fear Bash and drive a wedge between them.

 

Perhaps he hopes to frighten her enough that she will flee back to Scotland with the children, depriving Bash of the heir he has yet to legitimize before he can do so, clearing the way for Antoine to come after Bash, who would likely meet an early, too-convenient end. She shivers at the thought. Perhaps he might then even murder his brother as he helped Mary murder Francis to clear the way to the throne for himself.

 

If Condé thinks that will work, he is a fool.

 

If Charlie is not legitimized, he will always have a target on his back, as Jean did, because of who his father is. Even if he is legitimized, he may well still have a target on his back. But she will not do anything to endanger him further.

 

But perhaps . . . perhaps Charlie _would_ be safest in Scotland, quietly ensconced at Livingston House. Perhaps they all would be, but even if she fled in the night with her children, she could not hide them from their kingly father forever, even elsewhere in Scotland. He is king in France now, they are in France with him, and in France they must remain.

 

Perhaps Condé’s words are a threat, a threat that he would not hesitate to murder Bash as he and Mary did Francis. Is he asking her to _help_ , as he helped Mary, by playing on fears she might have for her children? Perhaps Condé means to sidestep his brother, not by becoming king of France himself, but by insinuating his way into her inner circle, meaning to become regent for her son or, at the very least, a trusted adviser if Bash were to legitimize him before meeting an untimely end.

 

She shakes her head. She must stop woolgathering, because she is sitting in front of an enemy. She must listen carefully to Condé, but she cannot trust anything he tells her and she does not voice any of her questions. “You hate him, don’t you?” she asks instead, suspiciously. “You must.”

 

“No, I –”

 

“Not Francis. Bash. You hate Bash. Because Mary gave him everything you wanted after _you_ helped her kill Francis,” she goads. “Her hand, her heart, a crown, even a child.” Her mouth twists a bit at the last. She cannot help it.

 

But she cannot dwell on it. It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters now is Condé sitting in front of her, more likely than not a threat to Bash and to her children.

 

“I will admit I was jealous, but I didn’t hate him. I _don’t_ hate him. I don’t trust him either, that much is true. But you – you’re like Mary, like me, aren’t you?”

 

She shudders at the thought, hoping her revulsion does not show on her face.

 

“You’ll put those you love above everything else. You would do anything for your children, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Yes,” she admits instinctively, wishing to kick herself as soon as she does. But no – that is fine. That is any mother’s instinct. Best not to show more animosity than needed.

 

“As Mary did her unborn child?”

 

She cannot help herself then. “ _My_ children don’t need protection from _their_ father,” she snaps, rising from her seat.

 

After all, Bash is not some raving madman like Henry and Francis were.

 

 “Kenna –”

 

She ignores him, leaving him behind in her sitting room without a goodbye.

 

\---

 

“Where are my children?” she asks Gabrielle when she enters her bedchamber.

 

“Nanny Moira took Lord Charles out for some fresh air and Lady Tara is having her riding lesson with the king,” Gabrielle replies without taking a breath.

 

She sits down at her vanity and picks up her brush. “Fetch my cream day gown with the golden trim.”

 

“Good choice, my lady,” Gabrielle says approvingly. “It’s ever so flattering.”

 

\---

 

“Do you wish me to prepare a mount, Your Grace?” one of the stable hands asks her when she wanders out to find Bash and Tara.

 

“No, thank you, I’ve merely come to see my daughter’s progress.”

 

“Lady Tara does His Majesty credit, she does.”

 

She follows the boy’s gaze and sees that it’s Bash himself who teaches Tara, rather than turning the lessons over to another while he watches. She supposes in some ways it is as much for him as for Tara, a time set aside to be just a man, not a king.

 

“Mama!” Tara calls as soon as she sees her. “Look!”

 

Bash turns toward her, looking startled.

 

“You look very fine in the saddle, darling.”

 

Of course, Tara is hardly uninitiated; she’d sat a horse at a gentle walk a handful of times with Bash before they’d left Holyrood and Andrew, who has a respectable stable at Livingston House, had gifted her her own pony on her fifth birthday. Starlight – a gray pony with white socks so named because of his star-like marking and usually called “Star”– had necessarily been left behind in Scotland when they’d fled.

 

Then Narcisse provided Tara with the pony she’d quickly dubbed Moonlight. Moonlight remains with Lord and Lady Narcisse and her successor here at court – this time a pitch-black Arabian – is called Midnight.

 

“She’s excellent, far better than other girls,” Bash says proudly once he’s collected himself. “And boys, too.”

 

“It should hardly surprise you.” She won’t look away. “She is your daughter.”

 

His eyes heat until he interrupts their staring contest by swinging Tara down from her mount. “And my daughter needs a rest, because she’s been working very hard today.”

 

“Father!” Tara protests, clearly outraged at having her lesson come to such an abrupt end. It seems she is not so shy anymore.

 

“Now, don’t go giving those silly people who call us Scots savages reason to think themselves right, young lady,” Nanny Moira says, appearing seemingly out of nowhere with Charlie. It’s an unexpected sight, since Bash has made explicitly clear that these lessons are a time for him to spend with Tara without Nanny Moira’s or Kenna’s interference.

 

Then she remembers that Nanny Moira had been present the previous night – uncharacteristically quiet though she’d been – when Charlie had made his preference for Andrew over Bash known to them all and perhaps decided her charge needs to spend more time with his father.

 

“Go off with your nanny and have a rest, or else you’ll ache tomorrow,” Bash insists. “And your brother is tired.”

 

“He gave the poor birds in the garden quite the chase earlier,” Nanny Moira agrees sardonically.

 

Charlie does look rather worn out in Nanny Moira’s arms. His eyes droop tiredly when Bash touches his face gingerly, as if afraid to startle him.

 

“Yes, Father.” Tara unhappily follows Nanny Moira away.

 

Kenna sighs. “I wished to watch my daughter ride, but you’ve spoiled that for me.”

 

“She’d been at it for some time already. And I wish to take a proper ride myself. Would you join me?”

 

She hesitates. The two of them, alone in the woods? “All right.”


	15. skeptic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her first action upon returning to her suite is to order a bath with lavender oil, during which she downs more wine than she probably ought to have before dining with someone she regards with some suspicion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys - this chapter took longer because I was aggravated by recent spoilers.

Her first action upon returning to her suite is to order a bath with lavender oil, during which she downs more wine than she probably ought to have before dining with someone she regards with some suspicion.

 

After the day she’s had, she needs to calm herself down before subjecting herself to her former sister-in-law’s company.

 

“Your Grace?” her maid interrupts reluctantly.

 

“Yes?” she sighs.

 

“Lady Castleroy is here, for your tea.”

 

Tea? With Greer? She’d forgotten entirely that she agreed to that. Greer will hardly be the best company right now; she can be like a dog with a bone. She sighs again. “Show her in, please?”

 

“In?”

 

“In here,” she clarifies, as though poor Gabrielle is daft, when really it’s her request that’s daft. “We’ve known each other since we were little girls.”

 

“Would you . . . would you like the tea things brought into your bedchamber?” Gabrielle asks hesitantly.

 

“That would be lovely. Thank you,” she says with yet another sigh, tilting her head back against the tub and closing her eyes until she hears steps heavier than her maid’s.

 

Greer raises an eyebrow at her, gaze sweeping pointedly to goblet of wine next to her bath tub.

 

“I’ve had . . . quite the day so far,” she says unrepentantly.

 

“Your maid was positively scandalized to have to bring me to your bath.”

 

“She’ll survive.” She hums contentedly. “Could you hand me some linens?”

 

“Certainly, Your Grace,” Greer replies mockingly, but she complies all the same.

 

Kenna sticks out her tongue. “Don’t look!” she scolds when she rises from the tub.

 

Greer ignores her, rolling her eyes. “Your figure after two children is _unfair_ ,” she whines.

 

“Considering your growing brood, I think Castleroy is pleased enough with yours.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

 

Stubborn as ever, Greer refuses to engage her there. “Bash must be mad for wanting you.”

 

She wishes she were still lying down so she could slide under the surface of her bathwater and pretend she hadn’t heard. “Men sometimes are,” she says haughtily instead.

 

“I know what you’re doing, Kenna Janet,” Greer scolds once she’s dried off.

 

She suddenly gets a glimpse of Greer the mother and thinks she must be rather more like Nanny Moira than Mother. Her poor children. She has to hide her smile behind her hand before recalling what she’d been trying to forget. “Wishing I’d drowned myself in the bath so I won’t have to dine with Claude tonight?” she asks experimentally, trying to change the subject.

 

This time Greer lets her. “Claude? Good luck to you.”

 

\---

 

They sit on her bed like little girls, she in an airy robe and Greer having shucked her shoes.

 

 “What have you heard of Claude, in the years past? Besides what you’ve already told me.”

 

“About her and Condé and their unending strings of lovers?”

 

“Is Leith part of her string?”

 

He’s risen quite far, Leith Bayard. Leith, who had once been a mere kitchen boy, then a soldier, then named to the royal guard for saving Francis’s life at Calais. Then Catherine had selected him from among the men of the royal guard to keep an eye on Claude before she’d married, mostly to keep her away from unsuitable men. Later, Leith had become captain of the royal guard and been instrumental in keeping things under control until and after Catherine’s death.

 

He was ennobled for his role in ensuring a smooth succession and one of Bash’s first acts as king had been to offer Leith the position of king’s deputy. While he’d acted in that capacity before Bash even set foot back on French soil, he’s only now arrived at court to formally accept it. She’s meant to suggest that Bash do it all up as a proper investiture, to lend his deputy the gravitas and respect the position requires, the respect Bash was sometimes denied, particularly as Leith, unlike Bash, has not even royal blood in his veins to recommend him.

 

In a perfect world, Bash would have appointed a man with an old name and an old title and noble blood to be king’s deputy. But there are so few men Bash trusts and those others he does – Lord Castleroy being such a one – are not well-suited for it. The deputy’s position is best for a younger man without a wife and family that will require his attention, a man ready and willing to jump on a horse and gallop off to deal with whatever problems might arise in even the most distant corners of the kingdom. Because it is so demanding and France is a larger kingdom than Scotland, she’s thought to suggest multiple deputies – with _the_ king’s deputy at the helm and the others reporting to him – to make things more manageable, once there was time to find those others.

 

But she wants to know where Leith’s loyalties lie before she does anything to smooth his way.

 

“Last I knew of him until now was that he’d escorted Claude to Chenonceau for her mourning.”

 

“Mourning? With how poorly she got on with Catherine –”

 

“Jean and Charles were dead and they were the only two left. It must have been difficult. Honestly, I feel sorry for her.”

 

“Sorry for –?”

 

“I’ve rarely seen my sisters since I left Scotland, but I know they live, that they are safe and happy and –”

 

“Well-provided for,” Kenna interjects lightly, recalling the vast dowries Lord Castleroy had settled on each of the Norwoods of Kinross upon marrying Greer.

 

But Greer’s face darkens. “Please don’t.”

 

“Is everything . . . all right?”

 

“I think Aloysius was a bit . . . jealous isn’t the right word, I suppose, but . . . concerned when Leith was named king’s deputy. The barony is nothing to what Aloysius has, of course, but a nobleman who’s been named king’s deputy is quite different from the kitchen boy turned king’s guard I once loved.”

 

The look on Greer’s face is so soft for a moment that Kenna is concerned – most of all for Greer’s marriage, but also because of Leith’s closeness to Claude and the possibility that Greer might be hurt in more ways than one. 

 

“I love him –”

 

No. Oh _no_.

 

“And it hurts me to think I’ve not made him secure enough in my love.”

 

Relief sweeps over her when she realizes Greer speaks of Lord Castleroy.

 

“As for Leith, I think he knows better than to get involved with someone so high above him. Now, at least,” Greer says ruefully. “I would hope. Especially since there are so many more possibilities open to him now that he’s titled.”

 

“Why, Greer, are you jealous?” she asks, hoping to tease her friend into a smile.

 

“You’re terrible!” Greer chucks a pillow at her with a fond eye roll. “I’m glad for him. And I really do hope he’s not caught up in Claude’s clutches – that would bring him nothing but a world of pain.”

 

“Rather like the headache I’ll have after she’s through with _me_ ,” Kenna groans.

 

\---

 

“Claude,” she greets informally.

 

“Kenna.”

 

Tara, on the other hand, not having encountered Claude before, is about to fall back on the standard formal greeting until Claude comes to them and takes her hand. “Please don’t! I’m your aunt, after all, and anyway –” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, with a small smile to match. “I hate that stuffy nonsense.”

 

Tara grins back.

 

Claude bends to Charlie’s level then. “And this must be your brother.” She touches his face and Charlie turns, hiding it against Tara.

 

“Don’t be shy,” Tara says encouragingly. “This is our aunt, silly.” Tara gives Charlie a little push until, unbelievably, her shy boy goes wordlessly into Claude’s arms.

 

If only Tara could work her magic when it comes to father and son. Perhaps Charlie is just in a better mood because he is fully rested.

 

Claude’s smile widens as she picks Charlie up and leads them into supper.

 

Kenna moves at once to walk beside her. “If you poison me, Bash will realize at once who was behind my demise,” she whispers, while wearing a beatific smile as though it’s all a grand joke, mostly so that Tara, just behind them, doesn’t notice. But she also means to put Claude on notice, that she knows what sort of woman she is dealing with and that she sees right through her.

 

She touches the topaz brooch on her sash. Tonight, with Greer’s help, she dressed for battle and this particular token serves its purpose now, reminding her of her own power. The brooch was a gift from Cardinal Bellagio, the papal legate, who presented it to her shortly after she arrived at court. She’d been suspicious, but accepted it graciously. Beyond the gift, Bellagio did not particularly court her favor or seek private audience when she was in Bash’s good graces, but he’d been one of the few among the higher-ranking people at court who did not shun her when she fell noticeably out of favor, always greeting her politely whenever their paths crossed.

 

Claude seems startled for a moment but catches herself, muttering sarcastically through her own smile, “And my brother does take rather drastic measures when someone attempts to poison you.”

 

Kenna raises an eyebrow.

 

“Diane told me what precipitated his marriage to Mary. What a twisted way to show his total devotion to you.” She shakes her head and turns her attention back to Kenna’s son in her arms, making a silly face that confuses him and then another that causes him to burst into uncharacteristic giggles.

 

\---

 

Despite the fact that she hasn’t experienced any distressing symptoms through the previous courses, she remains wary, because it seems Claude has taken on Catherine’s Italian chefs – the food is incomparable – and because, despite how delicious the fish is, Claude merely cuts it up and moves it around her plate after taking only the smallest bites of the previous dishes.

 

“Is the fish not to your taste?” she asks innocently.

 

“I’ve never had much of a stomach for it,” Claude replies, looking down at her plate.

 

Perhaps it is less that and more fighting the same tendency to stoutness that Catherine had to work quite hard to prevail over, although on Claude the bit of extra weight suits her, lending her figure a womanliness it previously lacked beyond the breasts that she insisted on flaunting to all and sundry in low-cut gowns that had been the talk of the court – though now Claude is more covered up than she ever was before.

 

“That’s too bad,” Tara says sympathetically. “It’s very good, Aunt Claude.” She’s a bit less shy with Claude upon their first meeting than she was with Bash upon their reunion.

 

“I’m glad you like it,” Claude replies with a soft smile.

 

Despite the way the children seem to be taking to Claude and Claude to them and the preternatural good instincts Nanny Moira sometimes ascribes to children while lamenting the foolishness of adults, Kenna will reserve her judgment, because she remembers the Claude of old and now knows just what sort of trickery she is capable of.

 

\---

 

She has more wine before bed that night – ignoring Nanny Moira’s disapproving eyes and pursed mouth – and sleeps deeply, if not particularly well.

 

\---

 

She rises early and sends a note to Condé as soon as she is dressed.

 

She repeats her words from the previous days once he arrives. “ _My_ children don’t need protection from _their_ father.”

 

“There are many ways they might be threatened.” He pauses. “And their father might well be a threat if he goes the way of Henry and Francis. But he needn’t.”

 

She wonders if he’s preparing himself to make some sort of threat or to suggest offing Bash or – _God_ , she has no idea what the damned man could possibly want from her.

 

“Henry didn’t just wake up one day and begin going mad, you know.”

 

“Didn’t he?” she asks uncertainly.   

 

“Henry was poisoned into madness.”

 

No. It couldn’t be. “But his food and drink were tasted – in fact, when Catherine tried to slip him something –” Though it had been Penelope that tipped him off, not a taster.

 

“It was his Bible, the pages brushed with a slow-acting poison with a very long shelf life that drove him mad.”

 

She’d never thought Henry particularly religious – she assumed his horror when his sexual perversions were witnessed by the actor playing at being a Vatican representative had been about the political repercussions, not about faith and piety. And yet Condé alleges it was his use of his personal Bible that drove him mad. The irony. _If it’s true, of course._

 

“You yourself experienced the consequences of his madness firsthand, didn’t you?”

 

Henry had forced her to perform certain . . . degrading sexual acts, forced her to marry on pain of death, tried to force himself on her _after_ he forced her to marry, publicly humiliated her, tried to have Bash killed . . . his sins were manifold.

 

She nods.

 

“Francis used that Bible as well and that same slow-acting poison, likely combined with his guilt over killing Henry, did – You’re not surprised about that,” Condé interrupts himself suspiciously. “Who told you?”

 

“Who told _you_?” she counters.

 

“Mary. Francis never told her himself, but she heard him cry out in his sleep and realized at once what he’d done. And you?”

 

“Bash. Francis confessed to him.”

 

“And sent him away shortly after?” Condé guesses.

 

 _After Bash killed Montgomery._ Most likely Francis, in his burgeoning madness, thought that after covering up the murder of one king, his brother might find it easier to commit further treason. But she won’t give away Bash’s secrets so easily. “Yes.”

 

He waits, but she says nothing further. “Won’t you ask how I know it was the Bible that caused their madness?”

 

“I assume you’ll tell me, else I will be hard-pressed to believe you.”

 

“After Francis’s death, Mary miscarried and began to develop sores on her hands and mouth . . . They resembled . . .” Condé pauses uncomfortably. “Syphilitic sores, and we began to wonder if that was what had driven Francis mad. And then the same occurred to Catherine, so we thought Henry’s madness might be explained that way as well, but it seemed too coincidental that Mary and Catherine would experience symptoms so close together. Catherine had asked Mary for the Bible and Mary gave it to her. And then Mary’s symptoms began to clear, while Catherine’s worsened. It turned out that the sores Catherine – and previously Mary – developed manifested where she touched her face with her poison-covered hands after touching the poisoned pages.”

 

She immediately wonders who was behind the plot. Assuming, of course, that Condé hasn’t made the whole thing up. “If it weren’t for the fact that Catherine herself was afflicted, I would’ve thought her behind it, considering how easily she dispensed poisons or dispatched others to do her dark bidding.”

 

“Ah, yes, Catherine de Medici’s infamous propensity for poisons.”

 

“But she never would have poisoned Francis, would she, despite what we’ve all suspected. I, on the other hand . . . I was nearly killed with a goblet of wine,” she decides to share. “Luckily my companion drank the unlucky cup instead and I was spared. I saw her die on the spot.”

 

She can tell he is surprised. “You think it was meant for you?”

 

“I’m certain of it. Catherine had grown tired of pushing for Bash and Mary to marry for the sake of the Auld Alliance and I assume decided to eliminate his inconvenient living wife so that there would be nothing holding him back from agreeing to the match. ”

 

“I – Kenna . . . to my knowledge, that’s not what happened.”

 

She feels her blood run cold. “Then what happened?” Bash said _they_ hadn’t meant the cup for her but – “Did _Mary_ try to have me poisoned?” If Conde has been telling her the truth, it shouldn’t be such a surprise. Mary killed the husband she loved; why not try and do the same to Kenna for Scotland’s sake?

 

“No. To my knowledge, Mary played no role and knew not the true culprit. It was my brother.”

 

“Why would your brother have me poisoned?”

 

 “For revenge.”

 

“I’ve never even met –”

 

“Not you – revenge against Bash.”

 

“Why Bash?”

 

“He attempted to assassinate our brother Marcus during the Italian wars, but gravely injured him instead of killing him immediately, resulting in a slow, painful decline that drove Marcus to despair, drink, and ultimately death.”

_I never felt quite the same toward him after he ordered me to assassinate Condé’s brother . . . . It shook me so much to do it that I didn’t even do a clean job of it – I’ve heard that Marcus lingered and suffered terribly for ages after._  

 

“Antoine hates him for it and wished to make him suffer as Marcus suffered, by taking away the person dearest to him, because, in his misery, Marcus drove even his beloved wife away.”

 

“Yet you don’t hate Bash for that?”

 

“He apologized, you know.  He told me it was Henry’s order, but he didn’t try to escape blame. He said it haunts him still and I know what it is to be haunted.” Condé sighs. “But Henry . . . Henry I will hate for it until the day I die.”

 

Still, she cannot help but be suspicious of the maddening man that is the Prince of Condé. “Even if you don’t hate Bash, why turn against your own brother, your own blood, and come to me with this?” But then another thought occurs to her, before Condé has a chance to answer. “Was your brother the one who arranged for the poisoned Bible as well?”

 

“Yes. He boasted of it, eyes dancing, when I told him what we’d discovered and I thought, quite seriously, about wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing till the light went out of those damned bright eyes of his.”

 

It’s nearly unfathomable to her, the thought of wishing harm on either of her own brothers, let alone to do it herself, and Condé’s willingness – no, his thirst – to do so makes her slightly afraid of him.

 

“Did you tell Mary?”

 

Condé swallows heavily. “No. It . . . it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

 

Mary might have despised him for it, might have blamed him for his brother’s sins, for the fact that she killed her husband because of a madness Condé’s brother induced.

 

Again, assuming that Condé does not lie.

 

“I – I do this now because . . . Because blood pays for blood and the bleeding never stops. I cannot allow Antoine to carry on. His thirst for revenge and his lust for the throne have rendered him a monster as terrible as Henry and he must be stopped.”

 

It seems too selfless. And yet she is distracted from her suspicion because the combined weight of his revelations are nearly overwhelming her. “They blamed Catherine for years and, more recently, so did I, but it was thanks to your brother that I nearly died and instead had my marriage annulled, which rendered my children illegitimate?” Kenna shakes her head in disbelief. “My God.”

 

“They?”

 

“Bash and Mary. As I said before –”

 

“I can’t speak for Bash, but Mary – that wasn’t her only choice.”


	16. unlikely ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know you will be pragmatic, capable even of ruthlessness, because of your children. So you will not dwell so much on the dead – as my brother has and Bash no doubt would – to the detriment of the living.”

Her head feels as though it’s spinning. “What do you mean?”

 

Condé shakes _his_ head. “Catherine insisted on a marriage to seal the Franco-Scottish alliance, but the original match proposed was Mary and me. She offered her support for having my marriage to Claude annulled; she’d never wanted us to marry in the first place –”

 

The marriage had been Mary’s idea. Catherine had been so _angry_ about it, but Francis dismissed her concerns, agreeing with Mary that it was a strategically convenient match.

 

“And then I would be free to marry Mary. If, of course, I reverted to Catholicism and both my brother and I renounced our claims to the French throne. I don’t know that I could have persuaded Antoine to accept such terms, even to make me a king. But it mattered not; Mary refused the offer.”

 

Suddenly, she feels faint; she cannot get enough air in her lungs. 

 

“I made excuses for her. I knew she cared for me, but thought perhaps she could not marry the man who helped her kill her beloved husband without guilt, even if she’d had no choice but to do so. But when I learned she would marry Bash instead, I was furious. I thought it shouldn’t have surprised me; after all, she brokered the match with Claude and cared not at all when I wrote to her to back out of it, because I loved _her_ –”

 

But that indifference cannot be laid at Mary’s feet; thanks to Kenna, who burned Condé’s letter, Mary never learned that Condé had severe misgivings ahead of his marriage due to his love for her.

 

“And what is the Prince of Condé to the heir to the French throne? Charles was still so young; anything could happen to him. I felt for you, you know, both of us discarded for the alliance. Fool that I was, I thought, I couldn’t stop loving her. But now – my God, she could not have predicted what was to come! I suppose she must have thought that the end of it until Catherine persisted and proposed having _your_ marriage annulled and Bash as her groom instead. If they believed that Catherine thought you the only obstacle to their marriage and, therefore, to renewing the alliance, and would not stop until she succeeded in having you killed . . . it all makes sense now. And to think I was so angry with her. Poor Mary!”

 

At that, her fury truly rises.

 

Condé thinks of Mary as some selfless creature, but when it counted most, Mary always put herself and her feelings and her reign above all else, no matter who else got hurt.

 

Everything Kenna has been through, and her children, and even Bash, the true culprit wasn’t Catherine de Medici and, in a way, it wasn’t even Antoine of Navarre; it was a woman she called friend, a woman she loved like a sister. She’s felt so terrible being jealous of Mary when Mary behaved as she did to save her, but Mary could have had Condé, who loved her – burned letter or no, Mary must have had some idea that a man willing to help her commit treason must have some tender feeling for her, and rejected him. Perhaps Condé is right; perhaps Mary might never have looked at him without remembering her guilt.

 

But that doesn’t mean her actions weren’t wrong. She tore apart Kenna’s marriage and her family and turned Bash into a king he never wanted to be, most likely all to hide from her guilt at doing a terrible but seemingly necessary thing.

 

And still Condé feels _sorry_ for her! 

 

 _Poor Mary!_ Poor Mary! She hates _poor Mary_. _I hate her and I hope she is burning in hell for her sins._

 

But Condé will never see his dead departed love as Kenna sees her.

 

“You say your brother was the root of all this. How do you know that?”

 

Thankfully, Condé accepts the change of subject. “My brother told me he had plans against your life before Bash’s legitimization. I told him not to do it, but clearly he did not listen. When the change to the succession was announced, he was furious that instead of losing a beloved wife, Bash was gaining a queen and a throne. _The luckiest bastard in the world_ , Antoine called him.”

 

“And speaking of bastards, what of Jean Phillippe?” Poor, poor Lola. “Did your brother have him killed as well?”

 

“I can’t say for certain. It’s entirely possible he could’ve had the boy killed, but I imagine he would’ve gloated to me about it, as satisfied with his success as he was angered by Bash’s legitimization.”

 

She recalls her last conversation with Narcisse. “Do you think Bash would have?” She doesn’t really believe it, she tells herself – he was sickened even at the thought of having a stranger killed and his unsuccessful attempt to kill Marcus de Bourbon obviously plagues him to this day. She simply wants to see what Condé will say. After all, coming to her with tales about his brother, tales that imply he wants revenge, suggest he means to eliminate him and, as things stand, eliminating Antoine of Navarre would mean only Bash would stand between Condé and the French throne.

“No,” Condé answers unhesitatingly. “I was here when he learned of the boy’s death. I suppose the news hadn’t reached him in Scotland. He sent me away, only allowed Diane to remain, but I listened at the door.” He smiles ruefully at her raised eyebrows. “Have you forgotten that knowledge is a courtier’s most valuable weapon? Knowing more than others, before others?”

 

She does remember. She nods in acknowledgment.

 

“He wept as bitterly as I did when my sister’s boy died; if he faked his grief when he thought there none to hear but his mother he is a far better actor than you or I.”

 

She knows that Bash isn’t, even now.

 

“Diane tried to tell him something, I could not hear what, but he ordered her away as well after that, I suppose wanting to be alone with his pain. Did you truly suspect him?” The phrasing of the question makes it quite clear what Condé thinks; there is no doubt in his mind and he sounds quite certain he has laid to rest any doubts she might have.

“Of course not.”

 

Condé is clearly not convinced.

 

And she is not convinced of _him_ either. “Again, why come to me with your accusations against your brother?” She has asked the question in different words already, but she has not gotten an answer that satisfies her. And yet, she suspects she knows what he will say.

 

Unless this is simply a ruse to quicken his path to Navarre and to France – and it may well be – Condé must hate his brother because he rendered the woman he loved a murderess and him a murderer with her, stripping him of a chance at happiness with her. A chance he wouldn’t have had anyway if Francis had lived with his sanity intact, but that is neither here nor there, as it seems not to have occurred to Condé. Still, she wants to hear it.

 

“I’m a selfish man; my brother ruined my life and I wish to see him pay for that. Perhaps if he is punished I can have some peace at last.”

 

This answer seems far more honest.

 

Condé sighs. “I came to you because the king would see me hanged for my part in Francis’s death if I ever told him of this, but you – you understand. I know you will be pragmatic, capable even of ruthlessness, because of your children. So you will not dwell so much on the dead – as my brother has and Bash no doubt would – to the detriment of the living.”

 

He was testing her, she concludes, by telling her about Claude and Bash. And whatever the expected result was, she seems to have passed. Perhaps he meant to see whether she would throw a tantrum (like her former mother-in-law would have done) that would cause her to fall out of Bash’s good graces or whether she had more sense and could be relied on to behave more level-headedly (more like Catherine, she thinks with a shudder) over something that wasn’t worth the energy it took to cause a scene about. It’s fortunate that her conversation with Bash on that particular topic went as it did. “What would you like to see?”

 

“My brother punished –”

 

 _Dead_ , she thinks viciously. Angry as she is at Mary and will remain at Mary until her dying day (anger that she will have to keep to herself, because Bash may never truly understand), none of this would have happened if not for Antoine of Navarre. And if Bash truly means to marry her, her children would be legitimate and Charlie his heir . . .

 

“My marriage annulled, and eventually myself as king of Navarre.”

 

“If I could ensure two of the three?”

 

“Which two?”

 

“The first and the last.”

 

“You don’t trust me.”

 

 _Would you trust you?_ she nearly asks.  

 

“You want me tied to the royal family until I’ve served my use.”

 

“I don’t trust anyone except myself, not when it comes to my children’s safety. As you’ve made clear to me, your brother is a danger to their father and therefore to them. But if you are no use to me in neutralizing that danger, why should I help you?”

 

“I will be.”

 

“Considering you’ve not managed to see to your brother’s punishment yourself, I’m not sure you should be so confident,” she retorts.

 

Condé remains surprisingly calm. “He’s a most suspicious man, my brother. That’s why I need assistance. The benefit to you . . . well, my brother’s scheme worked so well with Henry and Francis I’ve no doubt he’d try something like it again given the opportunity, but if we see this through, with my brother . . . dealt with, you will never be in Mary’s position.”

 

It is a fair point, but he will not scare her into budging on her terms. “And then you can ensure the second of your terms yourself after you have the rest easily enough.” Claude might fancy being a queen enough not to give so easily, if she could be queen of Navarre while continuing to live a life separate from her husband and king. But it is not to Kenna’s advantage to point this out to Condé.

 

And anyway, he is a Protestant. He could simply divorce Claude once he has enough power of his own, couldn’t he?

 

He frowns.

 

“My terms are perfectly reasonable. Have we a deal?”

 

Condé sighs. “I’ll take it.”

 

She hopes she does not live to regret it.

 

\---

“Your Grace, the king would like to see you in his office at once, before breakfast.”

 

It’ll be the first time they’ve been alone together since . . .

 

She shakes her head at herself as she makes ready to answer the summons, but she remains distracted enough on the way that she nearly barrels into what looks like a private conversation between Antoine and Claude.

 

 _Thrice-damned Antoine._ She suddenly feels the same urge Condé did to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze until his eyes pop, but she cannot give in. She must make proper plans with Condé and she cannot arouse Antoine’s suspicion and put him on his guard.

 

“Come, sister, we both know you’re rather fond of your brothers and what mine doesn’t know won’t hurt him. It’s not as if it would be the first –”

 

His tone is so slimy as to be nauseating. So much for the King of Navarre’s much-vaunted charm.

 

“Antoine –” Kenna recognizes in Claude’s voice the veiled panic of the unwilling female who doesn’t want to cause a scene, unfortunately too familiar to her from her days with Henry.

 

“Claude! I was just looking for you,” she calls loudly, as though oblivious to what she’s interrupted. “The children are so anxious to see you,” she continues, taking in the way Claude’s gone pale and how her chest heaves to match the anxiety in her voice, hand against her stomach, as though she, too, is nauseated by Antoine’s repellent behavior. “If you’ll excuse us, Your Majesty.” She doesn’t give Antoine, who is making a valiant effort to keep his expression mild and pleasant, the opportunity to reply before she loops her arm through Claude’s and pulls her away.

 

Claude exhales deeply as soon as they’ve turned the corner. “I can’t wait until he leaves.”

 

_Come, sister, we both know you’re rather fond of your brothers and what mine doesn’t know won’t hurt him. It’s not as if it would be the first –_

 

“Can’t bear to see your old lovers once you’ve tired of them?” she asks, taking a shot in the dark.

 

Claude’s arm slackens against hers.

 

“I see.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Then how ever do you bear being around Bash?”

 

“I –”

 

“Your secrets are safe with me. We women must stick together.”

 

Suspicion is written all over Claude’s face. “Truly? And you won’t even ask me why?”

 

She pulls Claude into a hidden alcove she remembers from her earlier years at court. “Do you wish to tell me?”

 

It strikes her how desperately lonely Claude must be if she ever turned to a man like Antoine.

 

 _She doesn’t like other girls_ , Bash once said, but Kenna wonders if, instead, it’s that Claude simply never learned how to relate to other females because of her difficult relationship with Catherine and so has never had the sorts of friendships Kenna has. And, with most of her family dead, no meaningful relationships with those living, and her husband haunted by the memory of a dead woman he never truly had, perhaps all Claude has left to her is continuing her early pattern of turning to men to fill the void in her life.

 

“We’d always been close. Bash was my favorite. He knew what it was to feel my mother’s anger and he just . . . understood what it was to chafe under the things imposed on us that we couldn’t control.” Claude smiles then. “We were both mischievous. He used to sneak me out of the nursery out to the high balconies to teach me about the stars. Somehow always had a sweetmeat or three for me, too. I think Nurse knew about those little excursions, but she had a soft spot for us both.” Claude sighs. “There’s not really much of an excuse for it other than I was angry that my mother meant to send me away as though I were some lesser-favored stepchild. I got drunk and was angry and rebellious and foolish and he half-hated Father when they returned from Italy. What better way to spite them both?”

_So many,_ many _better ways_ , she barely manages not to retort.

 

“If I were lucky, I thought, my mother might find out and expire on the spot. And they could hardly use me as a bargaining chip if I’d been despoiled by my own brother. And Antoine . . .” Claude sighs. “When my dear mother tried to marry me off to some awful Bavarian, Bash told me to view my marriage not as a punishment, but as an opportunity, a new start somewhere where I had a chance at finding happiness and love. I really did mean to look at the marriage I actually ended up in that way, but I was never able to compete with Mary while she lived – Louis called me by her name on our wedding night, for God's sake!” Claude’s face crumples the barest bit.

 

It makes something soft and sympathetic and entirely unexpected spread through Kenna’s chest. If they had a better relationship, she might hug her former sister-in-law now, but Claude would likely see it as pity and resent it.

 

“I was so _angry_ that I told him about Bash. I wanted him to end it, to have our marriage annulled, but he'd promised _Mary_ he’d marry me and he’d stay the course no matter what I said. So I thought if my husband meant to spend the rest of his days pining for my sister-in-law, I’d pay him back in kind. He could damn well live with my taking his brother for a lover.”

  
“So Condé knows?”

 

“No.”

 

That rather seems to defeat the purpose, doesn’t it?

 

“And I won’t tell him.” _Unless you wish me to_ , she nearly says, but it is one thing to lend Claude a listening ear and another thing entirely to interfere in her marriage, particularly when she has just agreed to ally herself with Claude’s husband.

 

“Thank you. Anyway, it’s in the past and I mean to keep it there,” Claude says firmly. “But there are other things I need to speak with you about.”

 

What could Claude possibly need to speak with _her_ about? “I’m supposed to see Bash in his office now and then we’ve breakfast with the children, but how about you come for tea this afternoon?”

 

Claude nods and heads off.

 

She continues toward her destination on her own and hesitates just out of sight of the royal guards.

 

What does Bash want?

How will she act?

 

How will _he_ act?

 

\---

 

_I wished to watch my daughter ride, but you’ve spoiled that for me._

_She’d been at it for some time already. And I wish to take a proper ride myself. Would you join me?_

 

_All right . . ._

 

\---

She finds Bash handsomer than ever; it’s entirely unfair how even the early thread of silver she recently noticed in his hair when trying to pick out flaws and signs of the inexorable passage of time fails to render him unappealing.

 

Not that she will ever mention it to him. Men have their own sort of vanity and Bash has his fair share of that, even if he will never own it.

 

But God, she’s nearly ashamed of how she feels, after everything. And yet she’s only a woman of flesh and blood – hot blood, at that – and she cannot help but want him. She broke multiple beds with the man, for God’s sake.

 

She’s seen the way he’s been looking at her since they set out and it gives her confidence enough that when they stop for a bit, she leans across the gap between their horses, knowing the invitation is obvious in the tilt of her chin and the look in her eyes.


	17. friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She takes a deep breath and makes her presence known to the waiting guards, who admit her at once.

She takes a deep breath and makes her presence known to the waiting guards, who admit her at once.

Bash isn’t alone when she walks in; Cardinal Bellagio is with him.

 

“What is the matter? Your summons was so urgent I was concerned, but I was delayed unexpectedly. I –”

 

Bash waves the beginnings of her apology off. “We’ve news from the Vatican.” He nods at Bellagio.

 

Bellagio clears his throat. “The king’s petition to legitimize your children has been approved.”

 

For a moment, she’s stunned. She thinks she can’t have heard him properly. “Oh.” She’s worried and wondered for so long and now it is done. “Thank you, Your Eminence, I’m – I’m deeply grateful for your efforts on our behalf.”

 

Bellagio nods. “I am happy to help ensure a Catholic succession in France, that God’s will may be done.”

 

“As we are glad to see it done,” Bash replies, though it’s obvious the mention of a Catholic succession makes him uncomfortable – not surprising after the turmoil that the pursuit of it has brought to their lives over the years. “But let’s keep the matter of the legitimization close for now, Your Eminence.”

 

“Certainly.”

 

“Excellent. Now if I may have a moment alone with –”

 

“Certainly. Your Majesty. Your Grace,” Bellagio inclines his head to each of them in farewell and departs swiftly.

 

She can still hardly believe it. “How did you convince them?”

 

“I thought it would be harder; after all, I was denied legitimization when Henry went to Rome himself to secure it, even with Mary refusing to claim England otherwise. But Henry had three legitimate sons and a daughter who was queen of Spain, whose husband would hardly have been thrilled at such an outcome. Now everything is different. Should I die without a legitimate heir, France would be ruled by Antoine, who’s Protestant now. This helps stabilize the succession rather than upending everything.” He looks at her quizzically. “You don’t seem pleased.”

 

“Of course I’m pleased! Our children finally have what they deserve.” She takes a deep breath. “Well then. Their legitimization removes the need for us to marry, doesn’t it?”

 

Something she can’t identify flashes across Bash’s face. “The need, but not my desire to marry you again. It’s only that . . . I didn’t tell you, but we’ve been working on this for some time. It’s just that I – I don’t want to try to force your hand anymore. I’m sorry.”

 

Immediately, it strikes her that it is the first time she has ever heard a monarch apologize, least of all to her, and it drains the beginnings of anger that might have become a blaze.

 

“I did think it might help, and that if legitimization were denied at first, the Pope might be persuaded to reconsider when he saw that I wouldn’t marry another woman and have children with her who could supplant ours. But now that you know that the children’s legitimization doesn’t rest on whether or not you marry me, you . . . you have a real choice.”

 

“I –”

 

“I don’t require an answer now,” he quickly interrupts. “In fact, I’d rather you take your time. Shall we go break our fast?”

Speechless, she nods.

**\---**

No one save Diane has ever joined them for their breakfast _en famille_. But she notes with surprise and interest that Lord Chateroux, one of the privy councilors, has also joined them this time.

 

\---

 

When she first sees the handsome stranger at Scottish court amongst the French delegation at a drawing room, he immediately captures her attention. He bears a striking enough resemblance to Henry that she asks Bash rather seriously whether Henry had any illegitimate brothers, then teases him, asking him if he really is sure he has no hidden uncles about when he replies in the negative. “Who is he then?”

 

Bash frowns deeper. “Lord Chateroux. He is a particular friend of my mother’s.”

 

 _Lover_ , Kenna corrects mentally. With that resemblance to Henry, what else could he be to Diane de Poitiers? 

 

\---

 

Later, at Livingston House, when her mind would wander as she sewed for her second child, more often than not resulting in needle pricks when it wandered too far, she recalled the strange and sudden appearance of new members of the French delegation and castigated herself for not suspecting that something was amiss when they arrived. After all, she was not included in their private welcome supper with Mary, whilst Bash was, and they never paid her a call. Most French visitors to Scottish court quickly did, knowing that she was the queen’s chief lady-in-waiting and that her French husband and his ties to the royal family made her more sympathetic to French interests than most.

 

Now, she wonders if Lord Chateroux was Claude’s explanation when she told her brother that Henry wasn’t his true father. She frowns into her chocolate, wondering if Diane pressed Bash to include him in the Privy Council and thinking that it is spectacularly unwise of Diane to keep him around.

 

**\---**

Upon her return to her own rooms, she is presented with a note that makes her smile despite herself. She makes the barest retouches to her appearance before heading off again. As she makes her way to Greer’s suite, she nearly jumps out of her skin when Diane falls into step with her.

 

Sometimes Diane moves like a cat. “Lord and Lady Narcisse have arrived at court.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I don’t trust them,” Diane whispers. “Narcisse plotted with Catherine to put Lola’s son ahead of Bash. If they’d had their way –” She shakes her head.

 

It would not surprise her if Diane speaks the truth. Narcisse would not be above plotting to supplant Bash in the succession, despite all that Bash sacrificed for France and, more important to Narcisse, what Lola wanted for her son.

 

“Be wary of them, with the children.”

 

“We were in their power for months and kept perfectly safe,” she retorts. “Despite the fact that Narcisse suspects Bash of being behind Jean’s murder.” But does Narcisse pose a threat to her children or to Bash _now_?

 

“Whatever threat that boy posed to him, Bash is too soft-hearted to have dreamed of harming him,” Diane says dismissively.

 

“On that much we’re agreed.” She has nothing more to say and is eager to get to her destination, so she leaves Diane behind.

\---

“Oh, I missed you,” she says, throwing her arms about Lola.

 

Lola laughs. “It hasn’t been very long at all! We went years without seeing each other.”

 

“Well, I was dreadfully spoiled by all the time we had together, and so much has happened that it _feels_ like forever.”

 

“Indeed,” Lola says significantly.

 

Greer is instantly suspicious. “I know that tone. Do tell us what you’ve heard, Lola.”

“What I’ve heard from my husband,” Lola corrects.

 

“What has your husband heard, then?”

 

“Well, the things that aren’t common knowledge are the really interesting bits: that Bash means to marry Kenna, for one –”

The last thing she wants is to be questioned about Bash, so she interrupts, “Enough about me! I’m thrilled to see you, but I certainly did not expect you. Why have you decided to grace us with your presence?”

 

Lord Narcisse is nakedly ambitious still; perhaps he hopes to trade on Lola’s friendship with her and the fact that he sheltered her and the children for months to curry favor with Bash.

 

The smile disappears from Lola’s face.

 

She hates that she’s caused it to do so. Lola smiled so rarely at first when they stayed with her.

 

“Bash is ordering an investigation into Jean’s death.”

 

“I – I wasn’t aware.”

 

“There have probably been many other things he’s wanted to speak to you about.”

 

“That is true,” she concedes.

 

“And there really isn’t much to tell. He wrote to me after you arrived and said that it was one of the first things he tasked his deputy with. And it seems Leith has made some small progress –” Lola clears her throat.

 

“Oh, Lola,” Greer interrupts sympathetically.

 

Their friend’s eyes fill with tears. “I cannot have Jean back, but I hope for justice for him, at least.”

 

Instinctively, she and Greer encircle Lola in a hug.

 

\---

 

She returns from her visit with her friends only minutes before Claude is meant to arrive for tea.

 

Claude seems troubled, twisting the fabric of her heavy skirts while she waits for Kenna to pour their tea; her anxiety is contagious.

 

“These tarts are Tara’s favorite, and mine. Try one,” Kenna offers once they each have a cup of tea in hand.

 

“Oh, I’m not hungry,” Claude replies, sipping her tea slowly.

 

Kenna, however, is, so she takes a rather unladylike bite of one. She had no luncheon today. Perhaps Claude will eat once she sees her do the same.

 

“I wanted to speak to you because . . . the reason I’m here . . . it’s got to do with your children. And Bash, too, but he’s the king, so he’s probably more protected. It’s – I think Antoine was the one who had Jean murdered.”

 

Yet another accusation against the King of Navarre? If it weren’t for the absolute indifference between the Prince and Princess of Condé, she would wonder at their timing – particularly knowing the closeness between the princess and the king’s deputy who is investigating her nephew’s death and Condé’s recently revealed determination to see his brother dead – but Condé has his reasons and Claude seems to have different ones, as well as perhaps her own anger toward Antoine as a former lover.

Kenna pauses, taking a sip of her own tea. “Lola thinks the same –”

 

“I know,” Claude interrupts.

 

In truth, Lola never specifically pointed to Antoine, although he was the most obvious suspect; she spoke generally of his family. “But Narcisse is firmly convinced Bash had a hand in it,” she continues.

“Bash wasn’t even here when Jean was murdered! It was ages ago,” Claude says indignantly.

 

Interesting. Claude didn’t give evidence like Condé did, but they are in agreement that Bash would not have had it done. “Why do you think it was Antoine?”

 

And yet . . . If Condé succeeds in avenging himself on his brother, barring an annulment or a divorce, Condé’s ascent would make Claude a queen. If she hadn’t agreed to take Condé on as an ally, she would bring up the possibility of an annulment to Claude to see how she reacts, if she has any inkling of her husband’s desires on that score. Yesterday, she spoke of wanting one herself when she was first wed, but things may be different now.

 

“I would never have dreamed Antoine would stoop so low, to kill a child, but he must have. I’ve underestimated how much he wants the throne. He knew I meant to send a gift to Jean and Jean was killed the day after it arrived!” Tears sparkle in Claude’s eyes. “So I wouldn’t put it past him to go after your children and my brother, too.”

 

“And you think he wouldn’t hesitate to do it right here at court?” Kenna asks, anxiety rising.

 

“I do. Because I imagine Bash means to legitimize your children.”

 

Somehow, miraculously, the fact that their legitimization has already occurred seems to be the best-kept secret at court, but how much longer before Bellagio shares it with others?

 

She lets Claude talk on.

 

“Your son would be one more person between Antoine and the throne. If he strikes now, he could kill Bash before Bash has a chance to see it through, and then he’d be king. And if he doesn’t manage it before the children are legitimized, he’d go after them both. So when he stopped at my chateau on his way to court, I invited myself along. I don’t trust him any longer.”

 

“And this has nothing to do with anger at him? He wasn’t terribly kind to you earlier.”

 

“It certainly won’t upset me to see him get his comeuppance.”

 

“But you don’t have any real proof? Just your suspicions?”

 

“Unfortunately. Or else I would have shared it with Leith, since he’s investigating Jean’s murder.”

 

“Thank you anyway,” she says after a silence, her voice as gentle as it was when they first met, before Claude was so ghastly to her.

 

She has her children and her brothers and Nanny Moira, not to mention Greer and Lola. But again, she wonders, who does Claude have? A husband who remains in love with a dead woman, a half-brother who resents her, and a niece and nephew who barely know her, although Kenna suspects they might grow to love her. It’s true that Claude brought Bash’s disdain upon herself with foolish tricks, but Kenna knows what it is to feel like she’s screaming for attention that she fears she’ll never get.

 

She resolves to be kinder to Claude, even if she’s vexing.

 

“They’re family,” Claude says simply, taking another sip of tea, and Kenna sees something of the girl who was devastated to see how easily her mother could send her away again.

 

“Have you said anything to Bash?”

 

“He wouldn’t listen to me.”

 

“Probably not,” Kenna agrees. “But we’ll see to this.”

 

After a long silence, Claude asks if Tara might accompany her to the village tomorrow. “To spend some time just us girls. Well, we’d have an escort, of course. Leith, for old times’ sake, I think. He’s been working too hard.”

 

She’s not sure how she feels about handing her daughter over to Claude for an afternoon, but if Leith is there . . . Francis trusted Leith with his life and Bash trusts him with the kingdom and an investigation of great importance to them all. And there would be proper guards, too, of course, even if they must make themselves blend in among the villagers.

 

Reluctantly, she nods, and Claude smiles.

 

\---

 

Impulsively, she decides she needs to get outside, because she feels full to the brim, buzzing with everything that’s happened lately. She needs to clear her head. A walk. On her way out, she spots Bash returning with the children, Nanny Moira just behind them, and a guard and a servant she doesn’t recognize trailing dutifully some yards behind Nanny Moira.

 

Where did they go without her?

 

“And where are you returned from, my darlings?” she asks, smoothing down Tara’s hair to give herself something to occupy her hands with. It takes some effort for her to resist the impulse to take her son from his father into her own arms.

 

“We had a picnic in the gardens. We would have asked you, Mama, but you were gone.”

 

“I was saying hello to Lola –”

 

“Aunt Lola is here?” Tara asks eagerly.

 

Charlie, who’d looked quite drowsy against Bash’s shoulder, perks up in interest. He echoes his sister hopefully. “Lola?”

 

“They became quite attached to Lola while we stayed with her,” she explains to Bash before answering the question. “Yes, she and Lord Narcisse have just arrived.”

 

“May we go see them?” Belatedly, Tara turns to Bash, too, eyes bright with excitement.

 

Bash looks expectantly at her.

 

“She was quite tired from her journey –” Lola may need some more time to collect herself after the remembrance of her sorrows. She would. “But Nanny Moira can send her a note to see when she is rested and ready to see you.”

 

Tara nods.

 

A ride will be better than a walk, she decides. Impulsively, she also decides to invite Bash to join her. “I’m going for a ride. Would you –”

 

“Your Majesty!” calls a messenger.

 

Bash raises an eyebrow in his direction. “Yes?”

 

“Your deputy hopes to speak to you as soon as you are able.”

 

Bash nods, albeit rather reluctantly, and gives her an apologetic look. “Kenna –?”

 

“The kingdom calls. I understand,” she says, joining their walk back to the castle.

 

\---

 

Once they enter the castle, Bash heads toward his office and Nanny Moira, the children, and she return to their rooms, where they find John waiting.

 

“John!” Tara exclaims.

 

Nanny Moira has, in certain circumstances, utterly given up trying to get her elder charge to behave properly. With John is usually one of them, but today Nanny Moira’s hand shoots out to grab Tara’s arm. “Sometimes children need be seen and not heard –”

 

Tara protests, “John doesn’t think so.”

 

“That is true,” he agrees mildly.

 

“But _I_ think so, and _I_ am your nanny, not Lord Huntley.”

 

Even John looks chastised at that.

 

Thank God for Nanny Moira. Sometimes she thinks her nanny is a mind reader.

 

\---

 

But as soon as the comfortable barrier of her children and her nanny has disappeared, she is confronted with another question that leaves her speechless.

 

“I realized some things at the garden party.”

 

“Oh?” she asks faintly.

 

“I cannot expect you to return to Scotland when the king of France is the father of your children and wants them near. I can, however, make my diplomatic position here a permanent one.”

 

“You would give up your position in Scotland, your place as a trusted friend of the king, to stay in a country whose king will always despise you?”

 

John, after all, had been one of James’s earliest and most powerful supporters.

 

“Yes. Because I . . . I love you. But –” John looks at her solemnly, blue eyes staring into her brown. ”I cannot continue risking everything for your sake if you will never love me like him.”

 

“I –”

 

“Have I any reason to hope, Kenna?”


	18. forest love and forest lass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is left to another night of attempting to drown her feelings in wine and lavender oil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "No Featherbed for Me" in George R.R. Martin’s A Storm of Swords.

In that moment, she has the awful realization that she has never deserved this man, because she can never give him what he very reasonably wants, and, more importantly, what he richly deserves. “I’m sorry. I’m so _sorry_.” Her voice breaks on the word.

 

Something breaks in John’s eyes then and she hates herself for it. She knows she is hurting him, but she cannot say otherwise, even though her words are breaking her heart as surely as they are breaking his.

 

He departs without another word and she is left to another night of attempting to drown her feelings in wine and lavender oil.

 

\---

The morning following her awful conversation with John, she decides she could do with a ride to clear her mind. And this time she won’t be deterred.

 

Her timing certainly has nothing to do with her daughter’s lesson, which is quite done when she arrives.

 

Bash smiles crookedly, tentatively, when he catches her eye, although there is something troubled in his, before looking back at Tara brush the parts of Midnight’s coat she can reach herself. “I know she’s very fond of Star and Moonlight, but I think Mid –”

 

She blinks at him.

 

“Her other ponies.”

 

“I know what their names are. I was surprised _you_ remembered their names.”

 

“I remember everything she tells me.”

 

She knows it’s how a parent ought to behave and that it’s the way he used to be, but it’s so far from the way Henry must have treated his children that Bash’s attentiveness still catches her unawares. To hear Bash tell it, Henry was not precisely a cold father before he went mad – to him at least. But Bash has also said that even he didn’t merit much attention until he was old enough to be amusing.

 

“A seven-year-old girl with three ponies; it’s too much.”

 

Moonlight has been returned with Lola and Narcisse and Andrew has written to Ronan to make arrangements for Star to follow in the next horse transport departing from the coast of Scotland.

 

“A seven-year-old princess,” he corrects quietly enough for only her to hear. “Some have rooms full of dolls; this one has three horses. A better choice, I think.”

 

He would say that, wouldn’t he? “She likes dolls, too,” Kenna huffs over her shoulder as she mounts her own horse, wondering why she is so disappointed to ride off alone this time when, more than anything, she means to clear her mind, to have a ride as uneventful as the last was eventful.

 

\---

 

Bash immediately releases his reins, placing one warm hand against her cheek and the other in her hair as he captures her mouth. But then, too quickly, he stops.

 

_Why do you stop? It’s not our first kiss. You’re my husband, it’s all right. It’s not as though I’m inexperienced._

_I’m well aware of that._

_Well, if you wanted a virgin . . ._

_No, I don’t. But I care about your experience. I know not all of it has been good._

_There’s no changing that now._

_I disagree._

_What are you doing?_

_Helping you forget everything and everyone that’s come before this. Tell me what you want . . . very specifically. Leave nothing out._

 

He’s breathing as hard as she is. “You’re a dangerous woman.”

 

“What do you mean?” she asks, an undercurrent of flirtation in her words.

 

“The things I wish I could do . . . I can’t possibly do while we’re sitting on two different horses.”

 

“We’ll just have to dismount then,” she suggests impulsively, biting back the filthy joke that rises to her lips.

 

Her feet have barely touched the forest floor when his lips are on hers again and soon enough, he picks her up – she always relished how easy it was for him – and somehow has the presence of mind to place her down on a spot near the stream where the grass is especially soft.

 

Not that she would notice, his lips and hands driving all rational thought out of her mind. 

 

The fire between them burns just as hot as it always did and she is merely a moth, drawn irresistibly to the flame.

 

\---

 

It’s mad, she thinks later, when they’re lying curled together, his arm around her while she rests her head on his chest and Bash strokes her hair. But it’s also lovely and –

 

“Marry me and we could be like this always, Kenna.”

 

And the spell is broken.

 

“I can’t,” she says regretfully, sitting up out of his grasp.

 

“Why?” He moves as if to reach for her, but his hand freezes in mid-air. “Is it because of the things I said earlier?”

 

_Is it because I confessed to attempting and failing to kill one man and killing another? Is it because I implied those were not my only “dark deeds?”_

 

She realizes in that moment the power she has over him, how easily she could crush him, king though he is, and the realization makes her resolve never to do so. “No,” she says at once, desperate to banish the sudden despair and self-hatred on his face. Even though his admissions shocked her, she doesn’t judge him for what he’s done and she won’t let him think otherwise, even if it would make it easier for her to do the thing she wants to do most in the world, easier for her to walk – no, _run_ – away.

 

And then he looks angry rather than hurt. “Then did Huntley ask you to return with him, _to_ him?”

 

That is when the truth crashes over her like a wave.

 

“I won’t –”

 

“Please don’t say anything else,” she pleads, hating that her voice breaks. She stands, turning her back to him, and picks up her discarded clothing as the tears she’s just barely kept at bay spring to her eyes.

 

“Kenna, I don’t understand –”

 

Her feelings make her feel wrong-footed and out of control and that’s the last thing she needs with everything going on around her, so she can’t help but lash out to protect herself. “ _Don’t!_ ” 

He falls silent.

 

She all but runs away back to her horse when she’s dressed.

 

“Kenna!”

 

She refuses to listen to another word from him, scrambling back onto her horse unassisted. She urges him into a gallop, leaving Bash behind.

 

But the truth of her feelings haunts her all the way back to the stables. While she cares deeply for John, she has never felt for him what, despite everything and despite herself, she felt – _feels_ – for Bash. Whether or not she truly knows the king yet, she loves the man still and that – not fear of the king who may be half a stranger – is what terrifies her.

 

\---

 

She returns from her ride – which did not clear her mind as much as she’d hoped, despite being in fact as uneventful as the previous was eventful – to find her brother awaiting her with a face like a thundercloud.

 

“John means to leave as soon as James releases him from his duties in France. He was willing to remain here, for good, for you. Care to tell me what happened?”

 

“I love him –”

 

“Then I don’t understand, is it –” Andrew’s face darkens further. “Have you been pressured –”

 

“No. In fact, Bash has put the choice entirely in my hands. He asked me to marry him again, before, nearly as soon as we arrived.”

 

Andrew’s eyes betray surprise that remains unspoken.

 

“I told him I needed time, which he’s given me, and he’s arranged to have the children legitimized regardless of whether we married again or not, so as not to force my hand.”

 

“How considerate of him,” Andrew says coolly. “At least this time he didn’t make you wait nigh on a year before making proper arrangements for them.” But then his eyes and his tone soften. “I know you’re not the girl you once were, so I won’t bother to tell you not to let your head be turned by a crown, but if you love John –”

 

“There’s a very big difference between loving someone and being in love with him,” she interrupts.

 

Andrew stares uncomprehendingly at her until something changes in his eyes, hardening them. When he finally speaks, the outrage in his words is unmistakable. “So you are still in love with the king?” His voice rises in angry disbelief. “Truly, Kenna? A man who abandoned you and your children for a crown!”

 

“ _He_ was pressured –”

 

Andrew scoffs. “Is that what he told you?”

 

“Yes –”

 

“And that’s what he’ll tell you again when he marries some foreign princess for another alliance and leaves you high and dry! Perhaps even pregnant again, though I hope you’ve had more sense than to –”

 

The contempt in her brother’s voice is bracing, instantly drying the tears that had begun to gather in her eyes. “Don’t you dare talk to me that way, with that disdain, that disrespect, like I’m some –”

 

Andrew breathes out harshly. “It’s not disdain or disrespect. It’s anger at him and fear for you. I don’t want you hurt again, or Tara or Charlie, and he has the power to crush us all and crush your hearts in the bargain.”

 

“I –” Her throat closes and suddenly she feels like her fury belongs to a different woman, a different life. “I love you. Do you know that? Truly, I do.” 

 

“And I you.”

 

“But you can’t let that love – or your fear for us – stop you from trusting me to make my own judgments and decisions.”

 

Reluctantly, he nods.

 

Only then does she continue. “Do you recall Lady Walton?”

 

“Lady –?”

 

“Walton. She was poisoned and dropped dead right in front of us all at a court gathering at Holyrood.”

 

“Oh. Yes. It was gruesome. But –”

 

“I passed the cup that was handed to me to her, meaning to be polite. It was meant for me, Andrew, not her. Catherine wanted Bash to wed Mary for the alliance and I was an obstacle to her schemes. Bash feared a future attempt against my life might be successful.” It would complicate matters to explain about Antoine and she has yet to decide what she will or will not say to Bash on the subject, so it doesn’t seem right to share that with Andrew now.

 

Her brother shudders. “So you are telling me he left you to save you from Catherine de Medici?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Andrew inhales sharply. “That was unexpected.”

 

“That’s an understatement. I could hardly believe it. I called him a liar when he told me he wed Mary to save my life, until he explained the particulars.” She sighs. “That doesn’t mean I don’t feel awful about John.”

 

Andrew’s sigh matches hers.

 

It seems callous to follow that with something about Bash, but it’s the first time she’s been alone with her brother in too long. “Perhaps we can have supper, you and Bash and I. He hasn’t said it directly, but I suspect he feels badly about the way he treated you when you arrived.”

 

“I suppose,” Andrew agrees reluctantly.

 

It will be uncomfortable for them all, but Bash and Andrew must make their peace.

 

\---

 

There are other less than pleasant prospects she cannot avoid. While Tara is out with Claude the following afternoon, she seeks out Claude’s husband. Despite all that Condé’s told her, she still has questions. “Was Catherine your brother’s doing, too?” Perhaps she has been unfair to suspect Diane for it, as they were fooled into believing Catherine had murdered Francis and attempted to murder her.

 

Condé pauses so long that she fears he will simply refuse to answer. “It would be easiest to blame him; his sins manifold, what’s one more? But no. It was Claude.”

 

 _Claude?_ No, Claude couldn’t have. Not her own mother.

 

 _Her own mother who always pushed her away_ , a little voice reminds her.

 

No, perhaps Condé means to turn her against Claude should he need her support . . .

 

“She came to me after she went through with it. She was on a bit of a . . . high, I suppose, having avenged herself on the mother who hated her. Perhaps found it invigorating. It was quite possibly the best night I ever spent with her.”

 

Kenna nearly rolls her eyes, despite the seriousness of their conversation, at the detail that, of all things, makes her wonder.

 

“Later, though . . . she hated herself for what she did, when the truth of it settled into her bones. It’s the only time she’s wept before me.”

 

And the conclusion makes her think Claude truly _could_ have done it. It’s rather sad, she supposes, that Claude is so alone in this world that she had no one to turn to in that moment but the husband who has always resented their marriage.

 

“She left court immediately after. I imagine she couldn’t bear to be reminded of it. In truth, I was surprised she returned.”

 

“Do _you_ hate her? Claude, I mean?”

 

“I’ve never told her Mary was actually the one who killed Francis.” He gives her a self-deprecating look. “Or that I helped. Perhaps it was just selfishness, wishing to protect my own worthless hide. Perhaps it was a desire to let her have her revenge and not be troubled more than she already is by what she’s done.”

 

He seems so cool to his wife that she wonders at his having a care for her feelings.

 

He continues as if having read her mind. “Claude is . . . difficult, but that is in no small part due to Catherine. Perhaps she could be happy if she filled the void Catherine left. But I don’t know that she ever will.”

 

\---

 

While Claude could issue a supper invitation to her, an unmarried woman, alone, she knows courtesy demands that such invitations issued to Claude must include Condé, but she is surprised to see him again at supper that night.

 

It’s a late meal, so Tara and Charlie will not be joining them other than to greet Claude and Condé.

 

As before, Condé seems genuinely interested in the answer when he asks Tara a question. “Did you enjoy your trip into town?”

 

Claude sits up in her seat, seemingly equally interested in hearing the answer – likely expecting a favorable one.

 

She certainly hopes so. She hasn’t had a chance to quiz her daughter on her afternoon adventure with Claude.

 

Tara pauses and finally responds, “Yes. We had spun sugar and bought hair ribbons for me and my doll, little ones to match mine.”

 

“To wear with her dresses that match yours?” Condé asks gravely.

 

“She doesn’t have dresses that match mine.”

 

“Then what will she wear her ribbons with?”

 

Tara’s brow furrows.

 

“We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?” Claude interjects. “Perhaps one of the seamstresses here at court can make her some.”

 

While Tara had a whole collection of dolls in Scotland that Andrew brought to her, the doll from Claude – the doll that bears a striking resemblance to her – is now her favorite.

 

She can tell that Nanny Moira, who had come in midway through the conversation to collect the children, thinks it silly extravagance from the way she shakes her head as she takes Charlie from her arms.

 

Claude’s eyes flick to Nanny Moira. “I see your nanny wants you, so may I have a kiss?”

 

Tara complies instantly. “And you, Uncle?”

 

Condé smiles, surprised, but it seems pleasantly so. He nods.

 

Then it is Bash’s turn and finally her own. “Sweet dreams, darling.”

 

\---

 

Once Nanny Moira has departed with the children, a servant pours wine for them.

 

Claude waves away the goblet Bash holds out to her. “No, thank you. Bit of a headache.”

 

Bash’s eyebrows rise in that expression of amused surprise that always made Kenna start to laugh with him. “Who are you and what have you done with my real sister?”

 

Claude indignantly protests that she is “not _always_ a lush, Bash!”

 

“Perhaps not in the nursery,” Bash retorts. “No, even then. Everyone thought it was the gold on the sweets at Henry’s christening that made you ill, but you were just drunk on –”

 

“That was an accident!”

 

“Likely story,” Bash scoffs, but it’s teasing, not malicious.

 

Claude swats at him, but then she laughs and he does, too.

 

Kenna suspects she is seeing the siblings they were before the Italian wars and Claude’s deceit and it makes her inordinately pleased for them both. She looks at Condé then and there is something light in his dark eyes that she hasn’t seen since her return to court.

_Perhaps she could be happy if she filled the void Catherine left. But I don’t know that she ever will._

 

Perhaps Claude will fill it with family.


	19. bedmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She cannot sleep that night. She begins letters to Aunt Fiona and Callum until she recalls that they have already left Aunt Fiona’s home, she reads, she drinks more wine and warm milk. She considers calling for Greer and Lola to keep her company, although they have children and husbands to tend to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love (and motivation) :)
> 
> Finally started hitting my writing stride again. A small segment of the dialogue is adapted from an s2 conversation between Francis and Mary.

After supper, Nanny Moira disapprovingly informs her that Tara has yet to fall asleep.

 

“It’s not as bad as all that,” she replies dismissively. “I’ll take care of it.”

 

Nanny Moira just huffs at her.

 

\---

 

“Did you have a good time with your aunt today?” she asks as she brushes Tara’s hair out.

 

“Yes, until –” Tara claps a hand over her mouth.

 

Oh God. Bash will kill her. She’s not sure if the “her” she means is Claude, or herself for allowing the outing. “Until what?”

 

“I promised I wouldn’t tell.”

 

“Tara, I am your mother.”

 

“You won’t tell anyone, Mama?”

 

“Tara –”

 

“Please, Mama, I promised.”

 

“I won’t. I promise.”

 

“A man tried to snatch my necklace –”

 

Her heart thuds, despite the fact that her daughter is here before her telling the tale, safe and sound.

 

“And Aunt Claude hit him with her knee . . . down there –”

 

A very Claude-like defensive maneuver. Despite the initial shock, she has to smother a laugh.

 

“Before anyone could help. And then she got very dizzy. Lord Bayard made us come back and he said she needed to rest because of her baby.”

 

“Claude is having a baby?” And Leith knows and is fretting over it? Is he – Greer has dismissed the rumors about them as nonsense, but she worries her friend may be wrong.

 

“Yes. But don’t tell, Mama, it’s a surprise and I promised!”

 

“Well, that is very exciting, but don’t worry, darling, I won’t tell.”

 

It makes perfect sense. Kenna doesn’t know how she missed the signs – the pallor that sometimes plagues women with child before the glow of impending motherhood sets in, the aversion to much of the food and drink served to her – including the wine Claude usually favors so, the new softness to her figure Kenna had thought merely a product of age. Perhaps most tellingly, there is the hand that occasionally rests on her abdomen in what Kenna now recognizes as an unconscious protective gesture.

 

She certainly won’t say a thing.

 

\---

 

“My brother came to me after I left your suite yesterday. He said he’s received word that Jeanne is dying – _truly dying, and she wants me away, brother_ were his exact words,” Condé says without preamble the following morning.

 

She’d hoped he’d stay away even longer. Her trove of secrets grows by the day and she does not know how much longer she will be able to keep them all, how she will be able to look others in the eye, knowing the things she knows. “Truly dying?”

 

“It is not the first time he’s claimed Jeanne is near death. But this time I’ve received confirmation that my sister-in-law is truly at death’s door.”

 

“An extraordinary man, your brother.”

 

“Indeed. And an extraordinary schemer. I’ve a thought as to how we can turn his latest scheme against him.”

 

They’ve been waiting for the appropriate opportunity to strike against Antoine, but none has presented itself. Perhaps their time has come. 

 

\---

 

“If you mean to keep Bash out of this, it’s a risk,” Condé warns after laying out his idea. The plan takes its inspiration from Henry’s madness and it cannot fall into place until Jeanne of Navarre is well and truly dead.

 

“It’s for his own good. I believe he’s practical enough now to understand that it’s necessary to let you live, but I don’t know that he could live with himself, allowing the accomplice to his brother’s murder to walk free and calling him an ally when he himself wedded and bedded his brother’s murderess. The guilt is like to destroy him.”

 

“You love him still.” He doesn’t pause when she attempts to answer. “No, don’t lie, you do. You protect him as you do your children, love him as well. Differently, of course, but just as fiercely. As I loved Mary.”

 

“Yes.” She’s surprised by how easy it is to admit it to Condé when she still cannot say the words to Bash, could not acknowledge it explicitly to her own brother. Though she must resist the temptation to tell him he’d do better to give his wife his love and not the late Queen of Scots, despite what she knows.

            

\---

Antoine is clearly a decisive man; the following morning, he sends her flowers – blood red flowers to match the gemstones in the bracelet he calls a gift from himself and his queen to belatedly mark her return to France when he calls on her that afternoon.

 

“This is a lovely gift.”

 

“For a lovely lady I hope to call friend.” He helps her fasten it, careful fingers lingering just a moment too long on her wrist, where her pulse point flutters. “One should always be generous with one’s friends.”

 

“It’s _very_ generous of you, Your Majesty.”

 

“Please, in the spirit of . . . friendship, call me Antoine.”

 

She drops her voice ever-so-slightly. “Only if you –”

 

“Fa – Oh.” The voice behind her – Tara’s – stops abruptly.

 

She turns toward the sound. “Tara, I have a visitor.”

 

“I thought it was Father.”

 

“Confusing to have two kings in the same castle, I suppose,” Antoine interjects genially.

 

Tara nods.

 

“Where is Nanny Moira? She doesn’t usually allow you to run a –”

 

“Gabrielle –”

 

“I see.”

 

“Your Grace, I –”

 

“Gabrielle, when Nanny Moira briefly entrusts you with the care of my daughter, you should watch her more carefully. I would be most displeased if you mislaid her, and my wrath pales in comparison to the king’s.”

 

Gabrielle bows her head. “Yes, Your Grace. A thousand apologies. It won’t happen a –”

 

“See that it doesn’t,” she interrupts sharply.

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Gabrielle says meekly, leading Tara away.

 

“I think it’s time to see myself out as well. I bid you adieu, Kenna.”

 

She nods graciously and takes a cleansing breath once she’s alone, trying to tamp down her annoyance.

 

\---

 

“Your Grace?” says the footman hesitantly what feels like only a moment later. “Lord Huntley is here to see you. Shall I tell him you are indisposed?”

 

She frowns at the goblet of wine she doesn’t recall pouring herself, pensive, before downing half in a single gulp. “No, I’ll see him.” She hasn’t seen him since admitting she did not love him as she did Bash.

 

“Kenna.”

 

“John.”

 

“Drinking alone?”

 

She barely resists the urge to snap at the judgment in in his tone. “Would you like to join me?”

 

“No, thank you. It’s mid-afternoon,” he continues pointedly.

 

“It’s been a trying afternoon.”

 

“Oh, so the rumors that the duchess of Anjou spends more gold on wine than most anyone at court are just rumors.”

 

“How –”

 

“Seeing as the king foots your bills, my lady, does it surprise you that people outside your household are aware of your expenditures?”

 

“You set much store by gossip.”

 

“It worried me to hear it; I never knew you to have such a taste for drink. I daresay it would worry Andrew as well.”

 

She bristles at his invocation of her brother, so heavy-handed, so unlike him. “As I already said, it’s been a trying afternoon,” she says, feeling a sharp edge creep into her voice.

 

“Your life at the king of France’s side will always be trying. Do you really want to develop that sort of dependency so soon, when you will surely spend the rest of it fending off rivals?”

 

“Rivals?”

 

“Others seeking to supplant you, not to mention his queen, when –”

 

“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she snaps.

 

John gives her a smile she’d call smug on any other man. “Then why do my words anger you so?”

 

“Get out!”

 

John obeys, that mocking, uncharacteristic smile still playing about his lips as he bows his farewell.

 

She drains her goblet and pours another, which she dispatches in short order.

\---

She cannot sleep that night. She begins letters to Aunt Fiona and Callum until she recalls that they have already left Aunt Fiona’s home, she reads, she drinks more wine _and_ warm milk. She considers calling for Greer and Lola to keep her company, although they have children and husbands to tend to.

 

Despite the impropriety of it all (she is in her night rail with a tightly-cinched robe tossed over it), she slides her feet into her bed slippers and gives in, allowing them to lead her where she wanted to be all along. “Please see if –”

 

The guards don’t even hesitate to open the doors for her.

 

She raises an eyebrow.

 

“You’re to be admitted whenever you wish to be, whatever the hour, Your Grace.”

 

\---

 

“This is a surprise –”

“I –”

 

“A _welcome_ surprise.” Bash does look pleased to see her, boyishly so, but it’s the king that speaks after that. “It’s a good thing it’s so late. The guards are discreet, so it’s well enough now, but any earlier and someone else would have seen you. Half the court would know by morning and the other half would be gossiping about it by luncheon.”

 

“Let them see,” she says recklessly. “Let them talk. I wanted to see you.”

 

His smile widens to something softer, sweeter that cracks her heart like an egg as he cups her cheek. “I always want to see you. But reclaimed recklessness aside, I know you still worry. Let me show you something for the next time you’d like to visit late at night.”

 

“Presumptuous!”

 

He laughs. “You’re jumping to conclusions. I merely meant, I don’t know . . . what if you have a nightmare?”

 

“I’m sure that’s it.”

 

“Just give me a moment.”

 

\---

 

Upon rejoining her, he leads her into his bedchamber and she has to try very hard not to stare at the bed and wonder just how much more comfortable it would be than the forest floor. The thought is a far more effective distraction than anything else she tried tonight.

 

But she is quickly distracted from that thought when he taps the wall to the right of his bed, very deliberately, three times. When the wall gives, she realizes it is no wall at all, but a door.

 

He grabs a candle and leads her into the passageway; they’ve hardly walked at all when he stops before a door with an ornamental doe upon it. He pulls out a key that opens the door, unsurprisingly, into her own bedchamber. But they don’t go inside. He puts the key in her hand and closes her hand around it. “This is yours. You can open the entrance into the corridor like I did the one in my bedchamber – three taps on the wall to the right of your bed. This key works on both our doors.”

 

As he makes to leave her, she reaches for him with her free hand. “Will you stay? Here, with me?”

 

“As long as you’ll have me.”

 

Despite the vastness of her bed, she curls close to him, safe in the circle of his arms, his heartbeat lulling her to sleep.

 

\---

She wakes up to Bash watching her with concern. “What’s the matter?”

 

“You slept ill last night, tossing and turning. What troubles you?”

She sits up and sighs. “Bash . . . I – I – Every choice I’ve made, continue to make, to protect the children –” _And myself and even you._ “I can feel myself growing harder, and I worry that I . . . that I’m becoming . . .” _Someone you will not love._ “Someone you’ll despise,” she finishes instead. “Someone _I’ll_ despise,” she adds.

 

“I could never despise you. Tell me your truths, no matter how dark, as I’ve told you mine, will continue to tell you mine. I want you to share your burdens with me; you’ve carried them alone for so long.”

 

She takes a deep breath. “I’ve – I’ve learned that Henry and Francis went mad because they were poisoned.”

 

Bash’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Are you certain?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He sits down heavily then, staring sightlessly into her fireplace.

 

She’d thought very hard about how deeply even that revelation must affect him, but she could not keep it from him forever.

 

In all the years since Henry and Francis’s deaths, Bash had not truly allowed himself to mourn either of them, forcing down the better memories of old, thinking of them rarely and only with bitterness and anger at the things they had done to him – to them – in their madness. 

 

She sits down beside him then, wrapping her arm around his back and resting her cheek against his shoulder, and offers the condolences he didn’t acknowledge before. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I hated them,” Bash whispers after a near-eternal silence. “I hated them for their madness. I hated them so much, in the end. I couldn’t reconcile the father who took long hunting trips away from court with just me, who took such pride in my riding, my skill with bow and sword, even my . . .” He chokes out a laugh. “Conquests could order me killed or try to kill me himself or force me to marry at sword point. But at least Henry . . . Henry’s fatherly affection was fickle; but Francis – the only time Francis ever faltered was when I took his place and Mary from him. I had faith in my brother in a way I had faith in few other things in my life and then it was gone. I hated him even more than Henry for that. And yet . . . whether or not they were poisoned into madness, they couldn’t control it. It controlled them, and I hated them for what they did in its grip. What kind of person does that make me?”

 

She can feel him suck in a sharp, shallow breath, as though trying to keep tears at bay and moves to sit before him, words fierce when she continues, “Human. It doesn’t matter _why_ they went mad,” she continues more gently, cupping his cheek as she stares into the beloved emerald eyes bright with unshed tears. “The fact remains that they went mad and mistreated you and even endangered your life. You shouldn’t feel guilt for your anger at the way you were treated.”

 

She feels the exhale of relief as much as she hears and sees it.

 

Once he’s taken a moment to compose himself, Bash looks at her intently. “How do you know?"


	20. sibling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bash’s hand comes down on the table next to her bed, startlingly loud. “Enough!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding "austrichienne": "austrienne" means Austrian woman and "chienne" means female dog; Marie Antoinette, who was an Austrian princess by birth, was called "l’austrichienne" by those who disliked her.
> 
> Comments inspire me :)

“Condé. Condé told me.”

 

“Did he confess to it?” Bash asks, voice tight.

 

“No. He knows who did it.”

 

He sits up then, jarring her. “Who? Tell me who!”

 

“Antoine of Navarre. He had Henry’s bible poisoned.”

 

“I will kill him with my bare hands.” He’s half off the bed before she tugs him down.

 

“Bash, no! We’ve . . . Condé and I, we’ve come up with a plan –”

 

“Condé?” he scoffs. “Plot against his own brother?”

 

“Condé despises him.”

 

Bash scoffs again.

 

“Condé loved Mary and Antoine hurt her,” she says simply.

 

His eyes narrow suspiciously. “Hurt her how?”

 

She tenses, but she demanded truth from him and she must give him truth in turn. “It was Mary –” She hesitates. “Who killed Francis –”

 

"No, that’s ridiculous.”

 

“I know it sounds mad, but –”

 

Bash’s hand comes down on the table next to her bed, startlingly loud. “Enough!”

 

 _And Condé helped._ It hurts that he will speak to her so when it comes to Mary, that he is so ready to leap to his dead wife’s defense. She can’t look at him; she stands and turns her back on him to face the window, the sudden tension and silence in the room near-unbearable. She can hear Bash rise behind her.

 

“I shouldn’t have shouted,” he says quietly.

 

Arms crossed over her chest, she keeps her back to him.

 

Gently, he touches her shoulder. “Kenna, look at me.”

 

_Their father who is king and didn’t give you permission to leave!_

_Pardon me,_ Your Majesty _, but you’re not my king. James Stuart is my king. And I will be removing myself and my children from_ your _court in short order._

_You’ll do no such thing!_

_You’ve no right to order me about. I’m not your subject!_

_You may not be, but the children –_

 

“Will you order me to if I don’t obey?” she snaps.

 

“Please.”

 

She does not uncross her arms, tension in every fiber of her being, but she turns to him then.

 

“I’m sorry. I believe that you _believe_ every word you’re saying, but Condé –”

 

Despite herself, she feels some of the tension in her shoulders dissipate.

 

“Condé suddenly seems to be a veritable fount of knowledge. Why do you trust him?”

 

She bites her lip thoughtfully. “I’ve very often been skeptical and I don’t necessarily trust him, really. But he’s been forthcoming about his own misdeeds and motives, things that could get him _killed_ if you felt so inclined, so –”

 

“Misdeeds and motives?”

 

“He acted – acts still, really – for love of Mary.” She’s considered hiding Condé’s culpability, but admitting it may help his credibility. “That he was her accomplice in killing Francis, that she asked for his help, because she was afraid of Francis at the end, that she was pregnant and feared what would happen if Francis carried on as he was.”

 

Again, Bash sits down heavily, staring sightlessly into her fireplace again.

 

She fears then that she’s gone too far, that she was right to want to protect him from this particular revelation.

 

Finally, after a long while, he looks at her again. “Does he have proof? Of what he says Antoine did?”

 

“None save his own word. He only knows what Antoine gloated of.”

 

“Testimony alone usually isn’t enough, not for someone noble. Usually it has to be nothing less than irrefutable written proof. But a noble’s word, his own brother’s –” Bash sighs in frustration. “Perhaps it can be enough in this case. Even if that brother has also confessed to regicide. God, Condé killed _my_ brother, I should – I should – I should be _gutting_ him right now.”

 

“You can’t. I mean, you can, you’re the king, you can do just about anything, but you shouldn’t. I mean, I can’t . . . I can’t imagine how you must feel right now, but try to understand at least a little bit. They . . . they didn’t see an alternative. You know that Francis was far worse by the time he died than he was when he banished us and that was bad enough.”

 

“I just –” He shakes his head in frustration.

 

“I know. I know.” She squeezes his hand. “But as for Antoine, I really think dealing with him quickly and quietly is the best way, not charging him with treason.”

 

“Killing him, you mean? Kenna –” Bash grabs her shoulders then, so tightly it is nearly painful. “When I – when I first actually killed anyone outside a battlefield besides Marcus de Bourbon, it was because of the Darkness. I was forced to kill two men in the Blood Wood. A pagan zealot as a sacrifice so that Mary would not be chosen instead –”

 

 _Mary._ Always, it goes back to Mary.

 

“And another, an innocent to protect my secret.”

 

“Your secret?”

 

“The innocent saw me kill the zealot and he knew who I was, who my mother was. But no one could know –” his voice drops to whisper – “that my mother was a pagan or that I was born a pagan.”

 

She knows she is the only living person besides Bash and Diane themselves who knows this particular secret; he told her years ago.

 

“Before I killed him, he told me he’d have done the same in my position. Anything it took to protect someone he loved. So I cannot regret it. But it haunted me. After that I . . . I felt a darkness in me that I despised. It was why I couldn’t rest until the Darkness was destroyed. I’d – I’d done things I wasn’t proud of and I needed to do what I could to make it right. I would never wish that for you. Promise me you won’t.”

 

“Bash –”

 

“Promise me,” he insists. “Swear on –”

 

 _Our children’s lives_ , she knows he will say. “I promise,” she interrupts.

 

“Thank you.” He clasps her hand between both of his and raises it to his lips.

 

“Promise me you won’t either. That he’ll be punished, but not by your hand.”

 

His hands tighten around hers. “Kenna –”

 

“Promise me.”

 

Reluctantly, he nods.

 

“I need to hear you say the words. _Swear_ to me that you won’t. Swear on –”

 

“I swear on my life, on yours, on our children’s.”

 

She nods, satisfied.

 

Then he takes a deep breath. “And here all I’d thought to talk to you about today was planning a party,” he says ruefully.

 

“I can do that,” she offers.

 

\---

 

She invites Diane for tea the following day. “Bash asked me to help you with plans for his coronation,” she lies pleasantly over biscuits. That is her cover story to spend some time with Diane and better discern her tastes.   

 

Her task is planning the birthday celebration of the king’s mother, while not alerting the king’s mother to her plans. In another life, she would have delighted in planning such a grand event. But she is still not sure where she stands with Diane; they care deeply for some of the same people, that much is true, but they have little else in common and have never been fond of one another. Perhaps this will be an opportunity to build a better rapport.

 

“He said he wanted a coronation for a king and a queen, like Francis and Mary had. Considering how ill-fated their union was, I thought that would be a poor choice. And that would mean waiting on a wedding, of course. I think he should take a queen as crowned king, don’t you?”

 

“I suppose.” Nothing like the rushed wedding they had at sword point . . .

 

“And we want to ensure continued stability, so the sooner the better. It would take some time to see marriage negotiations through.”

 

“Hmm?” she asks, having gotten distracted.

 

“I said that it would take some time to see marriage negotiations through. They can be quite lengthy.”

 

“Marriage negotiations?” she asks faintly.

 

“Yes – it’s not just two people marrying, of course, but two kingdoms. Even when Henry married Catherine, it took an age, and all she really brought was money. I was half-convinced she’d never come and I’d have him to myself forever.” Diane shakes her head and laughs softly. “It wasn’t to be. I’ve written to Elisabeth, since two of Philip’s nieces are possibilities. The Holy Roman Emperor’s daughters, Anna and Elisabeth.”

 

She sucks in a deep breath.

 

“They’re arriving before my birthday and will stay on at least until Bash’s coronation. You’ll be able to meet them, which I think is for the best. I’m sure we can both agree we don’t want another Catherine de Medici on our hands. A pliable girl, who’ll be a kinder stepmother, not one who’d see the children dead as easily as she’d change her gown.”

 

_Well then. Their legitimization removes the need for us to marry, doesn’t it?_

_The need, but not my desire to marry you again. It’s only that . . . I didn’t tell you, but we’ve been working on this for some time. It’s just that I – I don’t want to try to force your hand anymore. I_ _did think it might help, and that if legitimization were denied at first, the Pope might be persuaded to reconsider when he saw that I wouldn’t marry another woman and have children with her who could supplant ours. But now that you know that the children’s legitimization doesn’t rest on whether or not you marry me, you . . . you have a real choice._

 

And so does he.

_He was pressured –_

_Is that what he told you?_

_Yes –_

_And that’s what he’ll tell you again when he marries some foreign princess for another alliance and leaves you high and dry! Perhaps even pregnant again, though I hope you’ve had more sense than to –_

 

She didn’t.

 

_Your life at the king’s side will always be trying. Do you really want to develop that sort of dependency so soon, when you will surely spend the rest of it fending off rivals?_

_Rivals?_

_Others seeking to supplant you, not to mention his queen, when –_

 

“Don’t look so, Kenna,” Diane says condescendingly. “Bash is his father’s son.”

 

She finds the self-possession to raise an eyebrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Henry always loved _me_ best. Neither Catherine nor any of his little dalliances –” Diane gives her a pointed look – “could ever truly replace me. I’m sure a silly little _austrichienne_ –”

 

Reluctantly, she has to admire Diane’s wordplay.

 

“Will be no trouble for you.” Diane takes a sip of her tea. “So we should focus on planning their welcome party instead.”

 

“Of course,” she grits out. “I’d be happy to help.” _Though I imagine Bash won’t be happy to hear of your schemes._

Or will he? Will he realize he must be more practical as a king ruling in his own right than he needed to be as a consort?

 

She wishes then that they were having supper so she could trade her tea for wine, but then she straightens her shoulders, determined to banish the sudden seasick feeling that reminds her of her voyage from Scotland. Bash promised her marriage and, if she wishes it, no one – certainly not Diane de Poitiers – will stand in her way.

 

\---

 

Fortunately, Elisabeth and her party are not the only people who will be arriving at court ahead of Bash’s coronation and one of those arrivals is pleasure enough to nearly distract her from Diane’s plans for Bash.

 

They haven’t been apart for so very long and yet how changed her baby brother is! He’s of a height with her now, she realizes when she releases him.

 

She doesn’t recall Andrew being quite so tall at that age; he’d shot up later, had been a good deal taller than her by the time she sailed for France, though he still hadn’t quite outgrown the gangly boy he’d been. She’d been shocked when she returned to Scotland to find her older brother truly a man grown, as though she’d expected time to freeze and to find him just as she’d left him.

 

Perhaps Callum will tower over them all when he is properly grown.

 

She embraces her aunt more sedately and they both smile watching Tara tackle Callum with gusto – she had stayed up well-past her bedtime as they waited for word that the carriage had arrived, Charlie long since lost to slumber.

 

Nanny Moira is uncharacteristically anxious, clearly eager to embrace her darling, so Kenna decides to intervene. “Tara, let your nanny say hello.”

 

“Oh!” Nanny Moira says happily when she has her turn. “Look at you. You’ve grown so much. They’ve been feeding you properly; suppose I managed to scare some sense into Cook –”

 

Bash clears his throat after some more of Nanny Moira’s fussing. He greets Callum with a smile. “Welcome to court.”

 

“Majesty.” Callum’s bow is shallow and brief enough to concern her.

 

She expects Bash will insist they not stand on ceremony as he’s done with Andrew now that they’ve begun working out the tension between them in sparring practice – it turns out hardly anyone wants to spar with a king after Henry’s jousting “accident,” although Leith occasionally indulges him – but it won’t do for Callum to act so surly.

 

Once he rises, Callum only glares mutinously at Bash until Nanny Moira and Tara have left the room. When they’re gone, Callum turns the temper she really didn’t know him to have on the rest of them. “Playing at happy family,” he scoffs. “Ridiculous. We can’t just forget everything because he’s a proper king now!”

 

She’s glad then that her brother’s arrival is a family matter and not a public one, because this would have looked very bad indeed. “Callum!” she scolds.

 

“Callum!” Aunt Fiona echoes, suddenly looking rather pale.

 

“So innocent,” Andrew says under his breath.

 

“Andrew,” she hisses. She doesn’t want to intrude in disciplinary matters, since it’s Andrew who is his guardian, but Andrew’s hostile enough on his own and she’s can’t allow Callum to carry on so. “Cal –”

 

“Show some respect,” Andrew reprimands Callum gruffly.

 

“No, he’s right,” Bash says quietly. “But rest assured, Callum, that no one’s forgotten the past, least of all me. And I am doing my best to make it all right.”

 

Callum scoffs.

 

“I mean to marry your sister again,” Bash assures him.

 

“Do you?” Callum says skeptically.

 

“Yes.”

 

Aunt Fiona’s eyes widen, but the skepticism in Callum’s remains. He shrugs, as if to say _I’ll believe it when I see it._

 

 _I_ mean to _marry your sister again._ Not _I’m going to_.

 

“You must be parched after such a long voyage,” she interjects over-cheerfully. “I know I am and I haven’t even left the castle!” It takes a tremendous amount of willpower to see that everyone else is served before she finally indulges in her own drink.

 

\---

 

The following morning before breakfast, she is showing her brother about the castle gardens when they run into Antoine.

 

“What a happy coincidence, my lady,” Antoine says smoothly.

 

“What did I say about standing on ceremony, Your Majesty? You can’t ask me not to and do so yourself.”

 

“Yes, of course. I will abide by your wishes, lovely Kenna.”

 

“Thank you. Antoine, this is my younger brother, Lord Callum Livingston. Callum, King Antoine of Navarre.”

 

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Majesty.”

 

She’s relieved to see that he accords at least this king the appropriate courtesy.

 

Antoine nods warmly. “Likewise.”

 

“We were taking a walk before breaking our fast. What brings you out here?”

 

“I took the long way around to go to the stables; I like to ride before breaking _my_ fast.”

 

Though Antoine’s tone is smoothly modulated – innocent, even – she doubts she is imagining the lascivious glint in his eyes.

 

“Well, I hope you enjoy your ride as much as we’ve enjoyed our walk.”

 

“Unfortunately it will pale in comparison to the pleasure of your company, but I will endeavor to divert myself nevertheless. Enjoy your breakfast.”

 

“He was flirting with you,” Callum hisses as soon as Antoine is far enough away.

 

“He certainly was,” she whispers back.

 

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

 

“It’s part of the game here at court,” she explains with an indifferent shrug.

 

Callum harrumphs. So young still, but already he is proving to be just as fierce as Andrew.

 

She laughs. “I missed you something awful.” Impulsively, she kisses him on the cheek and wraps an arm around his waist.

 

Callum harrumphs again and she laughs again, louder, delighted as any older sibling successfully tormenting the younger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In real life, Elisabeth of Austria was married to Charles IX and her older sister, Anna of Austria, married Phillip II of Spain after Elisabeth of Valois’s death. In this world, Elisabeth of Valois lives past the age she did in real life and Charles IX dies before marrying.


	21. hostess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenna is a model in graciousness as she plans the welcoming party for Elisabeth of Valois and the princesses Anna and Elisabeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is dedicated to my constant reviewers remmierose and maritaqg <3
> 
> And thanks to my other commenters, too :)
> 
> And edit: Ugh, 3x5. Thank goodness this is so utterly an AU.

Kenna is a model in graciousness as she plans the welcoming party for Elisabeth of Valois and the princesses Anna and Elisabeth.

 

Greer and Lola can hardly believe it; their husbands, after all, are two of the best-informed men at court and they know the Habsburg princesses are eminently marriageable.

 

“How can you be all right with this?” Greer asks her as she frowns over the seating chart, moving the Bourbon brothers to her own table; only Bash, Diane, Claude, and the guests of honor will sit at the dais.

 

“I must be everything that is agreeable and gracious and kind; it would not do to become the jealous harpy haranguing the king when two young royal virgins rumored to be quite beautiful are about to make their appearance at court,” she says primly.

 

Greer and Lola both roll their eyes, but neither woman contradicts her.

 

Greer finally ventures, “Shouldn’t Condé be seated with Claude on the dais?”

 

“You’re right, of course. Hopefully we’ll still have a lively table without them.”

 

“With King Antoine, I daresay we will,” Greer retorts with a roll of her eyes.

 

“Kenna, are you quite sure Leith should be at your table?”

 

“He is the king’s deputy –”

 

Lola’s eyes cut to Greer. “But –”       

 

“Oh, stop it. We all get on well enough, thank you very much.” Greer’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Actually, speaking of Leith, Aloysius has been intent on matching him up with one of his associate’s daughters for some time.”

 

_I think Aloysius was a bit . . . jealous isn’t the right word, I suppose, but . . . concerned when Leith was named king’s deputy. The barony is nothing to what Aloysius has, of course, but a nobleman who’s been named king’s deputy is quite different from the kitchen boy turned king’s guard I once loved._

 

“There’s finally one I agree would suit; would our table be too crowded if you seated her and her father with us?”

 

“Rather, but I’ll do my best.”

 

“Keep your aunt and Callum at your table, but put Stéphane and me at another table with Andrew and Lord Huntley,” Lola suggests.

 

“Is that all right?”

 

Lola smirks. “Stéphane will be happy with it if I tell him to be happy with it.”

 

\--- 

 

All too soon, the royal party arrives. 

 

They are nothing like Andrew and her, she realizes as she watches Bash clasp Elisabeth’s hand; Elisabeth kisses his cheek. It’s terribly bloodless for two siblings – even half-siblings – who’ve not seen each other in so many years, who have so many shared losses.

 

Perhaps the cordial but distant relationship the greeting evinces explains how Kenna and her friends simply took no note of Bash during their time at court before Mary was sent to the convent; after all, they’d taken their lessons with Elisabeth.

 

Or perhaps it is merely Elisabeth’s way; she does embrace Claude, but quickly and not very tightly.

 

Diane, unsurprisingly, receives no gesture of affection; it seems all Elisabeth can bring herself to do is clasp her hand in greeting. “Diane.”

 

Elisabeth had been the only of Henry’s children who openly – if quietly – disliked Diane.

 

At last, it is Kenna’s turn. She hadn’t even been sure she would have been wanted, being who she is to the king the princesses are meant to enamor, but her presence had been requested. “Your Majesty,” she curtseys deeply to Elisabeth first, then more shallowly to the princesses. “Your Highnesses.”

 

Elisabeth’s greeting is not impolite or uncivil, but it is certainly not warm as she takes Kenna’s hand as she did Diane’s. “Kenna. The duchess was one of Queen Mary’s ladies-in-waiting, so we took lessons together as little girls,” Elisabeth explains to the princesses. “She rather vexed our tutors at times.”

 

Anna titters – a touch unkindly, she thinks – but her sister remains impassive save for the faint flush to her cheeks.

 

Already she’s determined that the Austrian Elisabeth is far more retiring than the Queen of Spain and certainly than her sister.

 

“The best of us do,” Claude adds mischievously.

 

Elisabeth’s lips tighten and Anna’s eyes flash.

 

But Kenna has to smother a laugh, and she is not the only one; Bash cannot hide his smile.

 

\---

 

She tries not to sigh when Gabrielle tells her she has a visitor. Keeping up a veneer of pleasantness is exhausting and she has so much to do. But she finds herself sitting up very straight when Gabrielle tells her that her visitor is none other than the Spanish queen.

 

A queen, visiting her? It’s most unusual for Elisabeth to pay a call to her rather than the other way around.

 

She rises as soon as Gabrielle escorts Elisabeth in. “What a pleasant surprise.”

 

“Surprise indeed, I can see from your face,” Elisabeth says, a wry smile on her pretty face. “I wished to speak to you privately.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I wanted to . . . explain.”

 

“Explain what, exactly, Your Majesty?” she asks, politely puzzled.

 

“Elisabeth will do. We were girls together,” Elisabeth reminds her. “And as a girl,” she continues, “I did not like Diane, because it hurt my mother so to know she was always second best to her. But she is mother to the only brother left to me. To Claude.” She smiles self-deprecatingly. “He always liked her better. So did Francis. Even Father – he promised her she could marry for _love_. It wasn’t fair; Claude promised a love match by our father while I was promised to a man nearly old enough to _be_ our father. That bothered me far more than it would have done you, I suspect,” Elisabeth adds pertly.

 

She makes a non-committal noise.

“It used to make me so jealous, how they all favored her; I was glad that Mother sent her away before my wedding so she wouldn’t do something to ruin it.”

 

Catherine had always loved Francis and Elisabeth, the eldest two, best of her children. Even so, given how fiercely the implacable late queen mother loved her children, Catherine’s chilliness to Claude had never made sense to Kenna.  

 

“I’m told she was rather rude to you when she first returned to court after you married our brother.”

 

Kenna makes another non-committal noise, before adding, “If it makes you feel any better, they’re not terribly close now. Bash and Claude of course, I mean.”

 

“Of course, seeing as Francis and Father are long dead.”

 

“Yes,” she agrees uncomfortably, not liking to think of them now.

 

“It would, if I were still half a child as I was when I left for Spain, but now I . . . I almost pity her. I am queen to the – to a powerful king, who is devoted to me, and have daughters who are the apple of his eye and the light of my life. And I’ve no doubt I’ll give him a son – _sons_ – soon enough. But Claude –” Elisabeth shakes her head. “A tattered reputation, marriage to a petty prince who beds half his brother’s court and half of ours’, no children –”

 

That last one will change soon enough.

 

“All she has is our inheritance.” Elisabeth’s lips twist slightly.

 

It is obvious, although Kenna can hardly believe it, that Elisabeth begrudges her sister Catherine’s money and properties even though she is a _queen_.

 

“She’s even grown stout.”

 

“We all do eventually,” Kenna ventures lightly, wondering at the once sweet-tempered Elisabeth’s soured disposition.

 

It’s true they had no opportunity to speak to her before she departed for Spain with Philip, but was she so much changed before leaving her home or is it Spain that has changed her? Marriage? Motherhood? Yet from all accounts – not only Elisabeth’s words – the Spanish king is devoted to her and her daughters are delightful. Even Philip’s mad son was said to be very fond of her.

 

“Not you, not at all. And after two children. My brother must be delighted.”

 

She skirts the innuendo. “ _I’m_ rather delighted not to need my dresses let out.”

 

Elisabeth laughs. “As am I, but pity my sister can’t say the same.” Elisabeth shakes her head. “Enough of Claude, I did not come to discuss her. What I wish to say is that I do not want you to take my public behavior personally. I cannot be too warm in front of Anna and Elisabeth. Although all of Europe talks of my brother’s love for you, I –” Elisabeth scoffs. “I’m meant to convince him to take one of them as his wife. I think not even the most silver-tongued person alive could persuade him, but I cannot have Philip’s nieces return to Maximilian saying I’d been too friendly to their greatest rival for the king of France’s affections.” Elisabeth lowers her voice conspiratorially. “There is nothing improper, however, in an aunt wanting to see her niece and her nephew.”

 

“It’s the most proper thing in the world,” she agrees.

 

Graciousness to Elisabeth will be easy, but she cannot let Elisabeth get too close; marrying off one of her husband’s nieces to Bash would be far more in Elisabeth’s interest and that of her children than standing idly by while he remarries his Scottish noble nobody former wife.

 

“Gabrielle, send for Nanny Moira to bring the children,” she calls over her shoulder.

 

\---

 

Tara has been in a bit of a low mood the entire day, so Kenna allows her to try some of her paints while she prepares for the welcome festivities that evening. When even that doesn’t elicit her daughter’s usual smiles, she asks her opinion on jewels.

 

That enlivens Tara at once. “This,” she declares emphatically, lifting the emerald-and-diamond necklace from Bash. “With these.” The matching earrings.

 

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll lose them?” she teases gently. She told her daughter the earrings would be hers someday, because they were the gift her mother received from her grateful father for the gift of _her_.

 

“No.”

 

“But they don’t match my dress.”

 

“Don’t care,” Tara mutters.

 

“Tara, what is the matter?”

 

Tara bursts out, “Father’s going to marry one of the princesses!”

 

“Who told you that?”

 

“Is it true, Mama?”

 

 _Answering a question with a question._ “Tell me who told you that, young lady. Was it Gabrielle?” Nanny Moira certainly wouldn’t say such a thing to –

 

“Maid,” Tara mumbles, looking down at the jewelry box. “Gabrielle’s sick.”

 

“She was fine this afternoon.”

 

“Nanny said her stomach aches.”

 

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

 

“But is Father going to marry one of the princesses?”

 

“Don’t listen to any of that nonsense,” she says firmly, pulling Tara into her lap, heedless of her royal blue damask, which will probably be wrinkled beyond repair, and the fact that Tara is getting too big for this. She kisses her daughter’s temple fiercely. “Ignore them, all right?”

 

“These are pretty,” Tara says finally, pointing to a pair of round sapphires encircled with diamonds.

 

“They are, aren’t they?” she agrees, lifting the earrings from their place in her jewel casket. They do suit her very well.

 

\---

 

Once they are seated at supper that night, Kenna leans in close to Antoine to whisper to him. “Really, you should have been seated on the dais with the others, but I didn’t want to deny myself the pleasure of your company.”

 

She can feel her younger brother’s eyes narrow from her other side; it’s really quite sweet.

 

Antoine chuckles. “I’d much rather sit with you anyway.”

 

From over his shoulder, she can see the way Greer’s eyebrows nearly disappear into her hair.

 

As the evening progresses, she fears Greer may lose her lovely brows for good as she dances two dances in a row with Antoine.

 

Bash is too busy with Elisabeth and with his mother, but most of all with the Austrian princesses. Still, she can feel his eyes on her. When she finally looks at him, she notes the glint in them as he lifts his goblet in half-mocking salute before drinking deeply.

 

Her brother, too, watches her warily.

 

But she is having a grand time and would have danced a third dance with the king of Navarre if it were not for John cutting in.

 

“An exquisite necklace for an exquisite lady,” he remarks with too-innocent appreciation before the music begins anew. “Although it pales in comparison to her own loveliness.”

 

She shrugs off the flattery as so much dross. “It means nothing more than that my daughter chose it because it matched my dress and, not knowing the giver for the boor he is, merely appreciated his taste in finery.”

 

The round sapphires encircled in diamonds Tara had chosen had a matching necklace and bracelet – all gifts from John she’d never worn; it wouldn’t have been proper. It hadn’t been proper for him to give her such gifts in the first place. She’d been saving them until they were properly betrothed.

 

“I never thought you would be so bitter and ungallant in defeat,” she reproaches as they begin the steps of a dance she could perform in her sleep.

 

John is unrepentant. “Am I truly defeated?”

 

“Don’t –”

 

“I won’t deny that I was ill-mannered, but it wasn’t just jealousy. It was concern. He – king he might be, but he’s no good for you. The rivals I spoke of – they’re here, Kenna. You see them with your own eyes; we all do.”

 

“I see guests.”

 

“Guests who make you question your place,” he guesses. “And he does nothing to stop it.”

 

“John –”

 

“I would never make you wonder.”

 

It’s that that chips at her defenses. “Please, for the love you claim to bear me –”

 

He takes a shuddering breath and doesn’t say another word about the Austrians. Instead, when their dance ends, he remarks on how much Callum has grown since before the war, sketches a bow, and abruptly walks off.

 

Acutely aware of John’s watchful eyes, she spends the rest of the evening nursing the single glass of champagne she plucked from the nearest liveried servant’s tray as she walked away from him.

 

\---

 

The following morning, she finds herself mourning her decision not to drink herself into oblivion the previous evening.

 

A sore head would have been the perfect reason to excuse herself from the farce that awaits her and the children in Bash’s apartments: Bash, Diane, Elisabeth, the princesses, and even Claude, Condé, Lord Chateauroux, and her own brothers.

 

_How in God’s name –_

 

They are all sitting together around a table near-groaning with pastries and fruits ranging from the Valois’ beloved Niçoise blood oranges and Tara’s favorite apple tarts to Spanish pomegranates and fig pastries and all sorts of savories like one big, happy family-to-be.

 

Lord Chateauroux simpers over Diane, who basks so in the attention that she does not spare Kenna a glance.

 

Princess Anna makes her most valiant effort to monopolize a clearly sore-headed Bash and Princess Elisabeth stares into her plate as though willing herself to disappear into it while Callum stares sulkily into his own.

 

Elisabeth regales Claude and Condé with tales of her daughters, whatever pity she claims to feel for her childless sister notwithstanding. Condé turns the Valois sisters’ attention to the children present, managing to engage Andrew, whose thin-lipped attempt at a neutral expression softens into a smile as Charlie crawls into his lap despite Kenna’s admonitions. Tara takes the seat beside him, opposite Condé, and begins chattering away as is her wont once Elisabeth asks her a direct question, while Charlie makes himself comfortable in his favorite seat.

 

“Your Majesty?”

 

Knowing who they are directed to, she can’t help but look up at Anna’s words, which means locking eyes with Bash.

 

Anna clears her throat.

 

Only then does Bash flick tired eyes back toward the elder princess, who looks none too pleased.

 

The whole meal is so absurd that Kenna does not know how she manages to contain her laughter other than focusing her attention on the quiche Lorraine and the smoked salmon with crème fraiche. Both dishes are exceptionally delicious.


	22. organisatrice de fêtes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What were you about with Antoine tonight?”

Just as she is about to put herself to bed after the welcome festivities, she hears three knocks on the wall of her bedroom. “Where is your key?” she asks after knocking three times herself and opening the secret entrance.

 

“There’s only one. Yours,” Bash explains, stepping through.

 

 _Is he . . ._ slurring? “Oh. Well, why are you here? Not that I mind,” she adds quickly.

 

“What were you about with Antoine tonight?”

 

 _He certainly is. And is answering a question with a question._ “Is that why you’re here? Is that why you’re _drunk_?”

“I’m not drunk,” he retorts with a petulance more fitting for their little son than a grown man. “I’ve barely had anything to drink.”

She scoffs.

 

“What was that all about?” he insists.

 

“I need him to trust me.”

 

Bash’s agitation only makes his intoxication more obvious. “You need him – you _promised_ me –”

 

“I want to expose his crimes, remember? And for that, I need him to trust me,” she repeats patiently.

 

Bash growls in frustration, “And Huntley? Do you also need _him_ to look at you as though you haven’t a stitch of clothing on?” He grabs her close then, so close she could count his eyelashes, but he doesn’t close the gap between them.

 

“Do you need _Anna and_ _Elisabeth_ hanging all over you?” she retorts with a mocking emphasis on the princesses’ names.

 

He rolls his eyes. “I was bored to tears, but I had to be polite. They’re my sister’s nieces by marriage and daughters of the emperor.” He kisses her forehead. It’s sloppy, unlike him. Even at his most passionate, there is usually a deliberateness to his touch. Her nose. “But no more of that polite nonsense,” he mumbles against her skin.

 

She turns her head so that he catches the corner of her lips instead of her mouth, snapping, “No, that polite nonsense will be rest of your life, Your Majesty. They’ll be your future wife and sister-in-law if your mother has anything to say about it.”

 

“What?”

 

She remains sullenly silent.

 

“Kenna, look at me,” he commands, all trace of drunkenness gone from his voice. “What did you just say?”

 

She turns her head to him then with deliberate slowness. Just as deliberately, she answers his question. “Diane is seeking your next bride.”

 

“No –”

 

“Everyone knows what they’re here for; one of the maids even said something to our _daughter_ about it,” she complains, childishly pleased to see the way his mouth thins with displeasure.

 

“Which one?” he growls.

 

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, Diane told me so herself. Unlike Elisabeth, who told me her husband’s nieces don’t stand a chance at winning you –”

 

He interrupts, “They don’t –”

 

“Your mother,” she continues, “reassured me that you were your father’s son, that Henry always loved her best, and either of them would be no match for me. I think she even wanted my opinion on which one you should take as your wife!”

 

He releases her, scowling, and stalks away. “Oh, she’ll hear from me –”

 

She can’t allow him to summon Diane for a late-night tongue-lashing. “Bash, she can’t know that I've told you. I don’t want your mother as my enemy. She’s your mother and I’m the mother of your children. We’ll be part of each other’s lives until the day we die.”

 

After a long silence, it seems he will give in. But his words belie her expectation. “I won’t tell her you’ve said anything; I’ll tell her I’ve seen through the scheme. Don’t worry.”

 

“When will you speak to her?” she asks, feeling defeated.

 

“Right now.”

 

 _You’re drunk_ , she wants to say. “It’s been a long day; you’re tired and so is she.”

“I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t.”

 

She cannot make an enemy of Diane. If she ever crosses Bash, if things ever go badly enough, if he ever feels so inclined . . . he has the power to banish her to the grand lands in Anjou she’s never laid eyes on, to cut her off from all contact with her children, and she’d need Diane on her side then, to watch for them. Even queens can be banished or locked away, after all, and even by the most loving of kings . . . good intentions or no, even Francis once imprisoned Mary. And even if Bash never feels so inclined . . . Diane is best her ally, not her enemy.

 

She sidles up to him then, looks up into his eyes from beneath lowered lashes. “I can think of other ways to help you sleep,” she says coyly, tracing a finger down his chest, down, down . . .

He chuckles, closing his hand around hers. “A strong effort, but don’t try to distract me. I need to put a stop to this.”

 

She truly is glad he wants to, but she still huffs in frustration. “If you really must, don’t scold her before others, not even the servants; she’ll be embarrassed and angry at me, even if she doesn’t know that I told you.”

 

“Kenna, that’s ridiculous.”

 

It seems ridiculous because he doesn’t understand women.

 

But then he shrugs. “I’ll ask her to come to my bedchamber; you can hardly get more private than that.”

 

“Then off you go,” she agrees unhappily, watching him leave.

 

\---

 

She waits in the secret passageway for half an eternity, ears to the wall and, though muffled, she can hear Bash and Diane perfectly once they enter Bash’s bedroom.

 

“A princess. There are lovely ones right here in the castle at this very moment. Or have you already forgotten your guests? You _are_ in your cups, hmm, aren’t you, darling?”

 

“Whatever I’ve drunk, Mother, doesn’t change the fact –”

 

“That you need a woman who promises a worthwhile alliance. You must think strategically –”

 

“I am. Considering everything that’s happened, I need heirs to make myself secure. Marrying Kenna guarantees our children’s place, rather than waiting for children that may never come.”

 

Good boy – she stifles the urge to giggle again at the thought – not mentioning that he’s had them legitimized already.

 

“And more children will follow if we marry again. I can secure alliances through their marriages.”

 

Privately, she hopes there will be more to it than that, but the words assure her that his intentions remain the same and that seasick feeling disappears as the tension seeps out of her.

 

Still, their daughter and their son – and any other children they could have, now that she knows Henry and Francis’s madness was not of the blood (but she won’t dwell on children who might never exist) – deserve more than that.

 

“So you insist on staying this foolish course? It’s not as if you can’t keep her at your side even if –”

 

“Enough, Mother! It’s not foolish, but I do insist upon it. I agreed to ridiculous festivities to placate you but –”

 

“Bash –”

 

Bash’s voice sharpens. “ _But_ I’ll remind you that I’m not only your son, but also your king. As such, _I_ will decide who I marry. It’s high time that I did and you will not gainsay me.”

 

“But Maximilian – Savoy – you won’t even consider – you will risk _everything_ for –”

 

“Careful what you say next, Mother, you are speaking of my wife.”

 

The warning warms her heart as much as it ignites Diane’s impatience. “She’s not your wife.”

 

“She was my wife, and she will be again. And she is the mother of my children and will be my queen besides. Be very careful.”

 

\---

 

Thankfully, the farcical breakfast following the welcome festivities is the only one of its kind.

 

She does make a point of including Claude when she invites Elisabeth to take tea with her.

 

But then Claude abruptly excuses herself after having no more than two bites of biscuit.

 

Elisabeth frowns at Claude’s newly vacated chair over her teacup. “She looked positively green. If I didn’t know any better –”

 

“She may have over-imbibed last night,” Kenna offers.

 

“Of course.” Elisabeth rolls her eyes. “She’ll never change, will she?”

 

\---

 

Though it galls her to plan them, she has to be very careful to make sure that Diane’s birthday festivities are no more and no less grand than the welcome they planned for Elisabeth and the Austrian princesses. The menu is different, the color scheme, décor, and flowers are different, the fact that Diane’s granddaughter recites a charming poem for her is different, but otherwise it is much the same.

 

The seating arrangements, for instance, are quite nearly the same save for Kenna’s own table and its companion, with Callum, her aunt, and Lady Adelaide’s father seated with Lola and Narcisse to make room for Condé, Claude, Andrew, and John. 

 

\---

 

“She reminds me so of my girls,” she can hear Elisabeth say warmly to Bash and Diane when Tara is done. Princess Elisabeth, too, seems genuinely charmed, while her older sister watches on with narrowed eyes.

 

“She’s wonderful,” Bash replies lowly, eyes bright, and something warm winds its way through Kenna’s heart.

 

But she’ll tuck that feeling away until later. For now, she must turn her attention back to Antoine.

 

“It seems the daughter is just as enchanting as the mother,” Antoine whispers as the polite applause dies away, fingers lingering indecorously over the bracelet he gave her and her pulse point beneath it – as indecorously as his eyes linger just above the low-cut _décolletage_ of her dress, blood-red to match the jewels in the bracelet, though edged in black.

 

Claude interrupts, her tone as sharp as her eyes, “Other things my niece takes from her father, our king.”

 

Beside Claude, Leith raises his eyebrows in a look that reminds Kenna very much of said father and king. “Indeed,” he agrees just as Condé does.

 

Lady Adelaide darts a quick glance at Leith sitting beside her. “The king _is_ very handsome,” she ventures shyly.

 

Both Scotsmen at the table cannot help but roll their eyes and Kenna wants to roll her own at their childishness.

 

Claude asks over-brightly, “Do you think so?”

 

_Retract your claws, Claude._

 

Lady Adelaide flushes and looks down at her plate, appearing to be at a loss for words.

 

She’s not sure why precisely Greer thinks the girl would be a good match for Leith.

 

With her delicate features and blue-violet eyes, the exceptional hue rendering her gaze even more striking than that of their sky-blue-eyed royal guests, Lady Adelaide is certainly beautiful enough. Her silken butter-blonde hair, too, is reminiscent of the lovely Austrians, and also of Greer. But the girl was silent as a church-mouse at the last banquet, Lord Desrosiers speaking for his daughter as though she hadn’t a tongue of her own in her head.

 

A man attracted to the likes of Greer and Claude is unlikely to be entranced by one such as Lady Adelaide.

 

“I think it’s an objective fact, don’t you, Aloysius?” Greer asks to fill the silence.

 

“Yes, certainly, my dear.”

 

Kenna has to bite her lip very hard not to laugh and Andrew’s eyes roll again. She fears they will soon roll right out of his head.

 

“Certainly she has his eyes,” Condé interjects lightly from Claude’s other side.

 

Kenna laughs. “I’ve always been grateful for that. He has very fine eyes.”

 

“Not so fine as yours, my lady,” John interjects gallantly.

 

An enigma, John has become. One minute he is stormy and antagonistic, the next the kind, charming man she remembers.

 

“Well said, Lord Huntley,” Antoine agrees.

 

“What say you to that, Lady Adelaide?” Andrew asks the girl across from him whose eyes are still trained on her plate. It’s thoughtful of him to try to draw her back in after Claude pounced on her.

 

Lady Adelaide looks up, startled, before gathering her thoughts. “It would be rude of me to disagree, but unpatriotic of me to agree, wouldn’t it?” she finally hazards.

 

Andrew looks intrigued.

 

She continues, “So I think it wisest to say nothing.”

 

“So while your plate does not contain all the world’s wisdom, staring at it as though it does is wisdom itself, then?”

 

“Indeed, my lord, at times it is,” Lady Adelaide murmurs, fighting a smile.

 

Leith lets out a sharp bark of laughter that even he seems surprised by, while Andrew chuckles approvingly, if more sedately, and nearly all the the men at the table join in.

 

Kenna realizes that this group, at least, seems to value cleverness as much as beauty. Lady Adelaide, having basked in their approval, realizes it too and sits up straighter, seeming ready to emerge from her shell.

 

Greer shoots Andrew a grateful, relieved smile before turning her attention to her husband. “Aloysius, won’t you take me out for a turn?”

 

“Always, my dear.”

 

“And won’t you partner Lady Adelaide and join us, Leith?” Greer hints.

 

“Of course, my lady,” he agrees smoothly, extending a hand to Lady Adelaide, who shyly accepts.

 

Perhaps all is not lost for the Castleroys’ matchmaking scheme after all.

 

“And Lady Adelaide has some divinely lovely friends you must meet,” Lord Castleroy adds, clapping Andrew and John on the backs after a well-placed and none-too-subtle elbow from Greer.

 

Kenna can see the _no, thank you_ form on Andrew’s lips and, while she would have left her brother alone in Greer’s position, Greer will not take no for an answer. She’s learned much from Lord Castleroy. “You simply must,” Greer insists.

 

Unwilling though both men are, they are powerless to resist the force of Greer’s will and wide smile.

 

\---

 

When only the four of them remain, Condé looks pointedly from his brother to her before issuing the expected compliment. “ _C’est un succès_.”

 

She nods in acknowledgement. "Thank you."

 

Looking to Claude, who has been alternating between staring moodily at the dancing couples and staring moodily into her goblet, Condé adds, “ _nous devrions nous amuser,_ _chérie_.”

 

Claude seems surprised, but she does not protest when her husband all but drags her off for a dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Organisatrice de fêtes = party planner, c’est un succès = it is a success, and nous devrions nous amuser, chérie = we should enjoy ourselves, darling.


	23. seductress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antoine finds his way to her side at once and remains there. He flatters her, attempts to entertain her with barely passable wit, and takes her off for a dance or a drink before anyone approaching them can get close enough to engage them or, worse, separate them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Reign fiddles around with so many other things and Claude appears to be older than Elisabeth would be now if Elisabeth had been 14 in the pilot (the age at which she married Philip in real life), I’ve decided that Claude is the elder sister in this story, although in real life she was the younger.

Nanny Moira, who’d waited off to the side as Tara performed her recitation, approaches their table with her charge.

 

“Well done, sweetheart,” Claude says, patting her cheek.

 

“The highlight of the feast, truly,” adds Condé as they head off.

 

Tara blushes at the praise, while Nanny Moira clucks disapprovingly to Kenna once they’re gone, low enough for Antoine not to hear. “She’ll be spoiled, petted so. Anyway, it’s off to bed with this one. Say good night to your mother.” 

 

“Aren’t you coming?” Tara asks her. “And Father?”

 

Usually, they’ve said their good nights to the children before official gatherings and slip away from more informal ones for a bit, but tonight they only said so to Charlie, as Tara would be attending the very beginning of the party. “He’s a bit busy tonight,” Kenna says, frowning as she looks at Bash up at the dais with Diane, the guest of honor, sitting on one side of him and Elisabeth on the other, as is her due as the highest-ranking woman at court. “And I’ve got to see that the rest of your grandmother’s party runs smoothly.” She kneels down to Tara’s level, uncomfortable though it is in her tightly-fitted dress, to kiss the top of her head. “Sweet dreams, darling.”

 

Tara frowns as Nanny Moira leads her away.

 

“Will you dance with me, Kenna?” Antoine asks, taking her attention off Tara’s departing figure.

 

“It would be my pleasure,” she says with a pretty smile.

 

\---

 

When her dance with Antoine comes to an end, she looks up to see Claude and Condé have appeared beside them.

 

“Antoine,” Claude purrs. “Will you take me out for a turn? We’ve always had such fun at parties.”

 

Kenna turns to Condé to plead _distract her_ with her eyes, but Condé is not looking at her. He is frowning at his wife, who is watching Antoine intently.

 

“Certainly,” Antoine finally agrees, taking his sister-in-law’s hand.

 

“Partner Kenna, Louis,” Claude orders with a pretty smile. “He’s a very good dancer, you know,” Claude adds in an undertone to Kenna. “Certainly better than my brother.” She casts a significant look over her shoulder to Bash, who is leading Princess Elisabeth out for a dance.

 

Condé appears to be in danger of grinding his teeth to a powder, but complies with his wife’s command as she is led off by his brother. “May I have the honor, Kenna?”

 

“Of course.” She must try her hardest to tamp down her own frustration and focus on her partner, but it is not easy. When she looks up, she sees Bash preoccupied with gentle Elisabeth of Austria, Diane watching intently with Lord Chateauroux at her side, and if she does not see them, she sees Claude and Antoine, both of whose eyes seem scarce to leave her.    

 

\---

 

When the music comes to an end, it is clear they have the same idea: to find Antoine and Claude and trade partners again, but they are waylaid by the Spanish queen, who has just finished a dance with her husband’s ambassador.

 

“Louis. Kenna.”

 

“Elisabeth,” Condé murmurs.

 

“It’s lovely being back. I did rather miss the dancing here in France,” Elisabeth says, fluttering her lashes.

 

Condé takes the hint at once. “May I have the honor?”

 

“You certainly may.”

 

When the Spanish ambassador begins to ask the same of her, she interrupts softly. “I’m rather parched.”

 

“I would be honored to escort you for some refreshments, Your Grace.”

 

“That would be lovely.”

 

\---

 

“Your daughter has quite the gift for recitation,” Mendoza says once they have their drinks in hand.

 

“That is very kind. Thank you.”

 

“Her Majesty finds her most delightful. As she does your son. A hale, hearty boy, she says. She so wishes to give His Majesty such a son.”

 

“My children are a gift to me.” It’s a platitude, but a true one. “As I know Queen Elisabeth’s daughters are to her. I heartily wish she will have her boy soon.”

 

“As do we all.”

 

“Speaking of your queen, she is a gifted dancer,” she adds before sipping her drink.

 

It is true. Nor did Claude lie about her husband’s skill. Elisabeth and Condé make quite the picture.  

 

Mendoza nods. “She is gifted in many ways. King Philip is ever delighted by her.”

 

\---

 

“I came and refreshed myself. I don’t need to sit, I want to dance,” Claude snaps from somewhere behind her as the latest dance comes to a conclusion.

 

She turns at the sound to see Claude putting a goblet down on a passing servant’s tray with unnecessary force as Leith – having mislaid Lady Adelaide, it seems – frowns at her.

 

“Dance with me, Leith,” Claude commands.

 

It seems Leith cannot refuse her. He offers her his arm and they begin to walk away just as several dancing couples arrive seeking refreshment, the musicians having taken a brief pause: Condé and Elisabeth, Bash and Princess Anna, Antoine and Diane, and Andrew and Lady Adelaide.

 

She hides her frown behind her goblet when Mendoza asks to partner Diane for the next set, leading her out. She knows well Diane’s intentions. But she cannot dwell on it; things are sliding back into place, Antoine moving to replace Mendoza at her side.

 

“King Antoine, are you so fine a dancer as your brother? Or does the younger surpass the elder?” Elisabeth asks, eyes flicking to her older sister on the dance floor with Leith.

 

Condé’s eyes darken as he follows Elisabeth’s gaze.

 

Claude seems to be having a grand time despite her earlier petulance; both Leith and she are all laughter and smiles.

 

“He certainly does not, but you must allow me to prove it,” Antoine replies, gallantly offering his arm.

 

Elisabeth accepts it.

 

Andrew accompanies Lady Adelaide for another turn, who seems livelier than she did before, and Condé reluctantly asks Princess Anna for a dance, who accepts equally reluctantly.

 

Kenna can feel the princess’s eyes on her as everyone departs, leaving her behind with only Bash, who does not invite her to dance. “Tara missed your good night,” she says, frowning. She looks not at him, but rather at the dancers.

 

“I –”

 

“Your Majesty, Your Grace,” says Lord Chateauroux from behind them.

 

They turn.

 

“Your Grace, I haven’t had the pleasure tonight. May I have this dance?”

 

She nods her acceptance.

 

\---

 

After she finishes her dance with Lord Chateauroux – a dance in which he at least manages not to trod on her toes an uncommon number of times, Antoine finds his way to her side at once and remains there. He flatters her, attempts to entertain her with barely passable wit, and takes her off for a dance or a drink before anyone approaching them can get close enough to engage them or, worse, separate them.

 

She casts dark looks at Bash and the princesses, a goblet in hand whenever she is not dancing – enough that she would have worked herself into a half-drunken rage if her goblet had truly been empty each time she reached for another.

 

Finally, Antoine remarks, too casually, that it’s too crowded. “I’d like to get out of here. Wouldn’t you?”

 

“You’ve already seen my rooms,” she giggles falsely when Antoine suggests relocating to her suite.

 

“Only the sitting room. I’d like you to show me the rest.”

 

\---

 

She is out in the gardens with the children when Condé chances upon them, too surprised for it to be a true coincidence.

 

“Uncle!” Tara greets him.

 

Charlie turns at her exclamation, too.

 

“Wonderful to see you,” Condé murmurs. “And what are you doing today? Don’t you have lessons?”

 

“Charlie doesn’t and mine are later. Nanny says children need fresh air or else we’ll rot away.” Tara’s comically wide eyes make her brother giggle and Condé stifle a smile.

 

“Well I wouldn’t want to stand between you and your fresh air then. Would you mind if I borrow your mother for a turn about the gardens?”

 

“You may,” Tara says grandly.

 

“And what say you, young man?” he asks Charlie. “May I steal your mama away for a moment?”

 

Tara nods brightly at her brother, who stubbornly shakes his head and clings to Kenna’s leg. “No.”

 

“Darling –”

 

“He didn’t _really_ mean steal,” Tara sighs, attempting to pry Charlie’s fingers from her leg. “He’ll bring Mama right back, silly.”

 

“Not silly.”

 

“Yes silly.”

 

“You’re silly.”

 

“You’re sillier,” Tara says, tickling Charlie until he releases her leg and falls back on his bottom, torn between breathless laughter and breathless tears.

 

Kenna hates to let Charlie sit there stunned, but she knows if she babies him, he’ll give in to the tears, so they just wait it out until he giggles.

 

“Let’s look at the flowers,” Tara offers, helping him up.

 

With Tara preoccupied showing Charlie the various sorts of flowers under Nanny Moira’s watchful eye, naming them and insisting he make his best effort to repeat the names for her, Kenna takes Condé’s offered arm.

 

“My brother means to seduce you to humiliate Bash,” he announces in an ominous whisper as soon as they are far enough away from her party.

 

Kenna laughs. “He’s not clever if he thinks that a good scheme. Does he truly think me foolish enough to risk my children’s future for a quick tumble?” she asks, looking back at them over her shoulder.

 

“I can’t pretend to understand him. I do know that he’ll want to go to your chambers, in hopes that Bash will catch him in your bed.”

 

“But he can’t be seen to –”

 

“I know. I know how my brother operates. When the time is right, and it will be soon, beat him to it. Seduce _him_. Tell him –”

 

\---

 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Kenna has to try very hard not to laugh, but the sultry look in her eyes paired with the purr in her voice is enough to make Antoine believe her performance after their recent interactions.

 

Antoine leans in, so close she can feel his breath on her cheek. “Lead the –”

 

“You first, Your Majesty,” she insists, turning her head away for propriety’s sake.

 

He’s clearly not thrilled by her refusal to take him to her rooms, but he smiles charmingly for her nevertheless. “All right, then, come with me.”

 

\---

 

Antoine tries to touch her on the walk to his rooms, but she refuses to have a whiff of scandal about her, and walks beside him with a full two feet between them, stately as a queen. “Could you open the window?” she requests after he closes the door behind them. “I’m a bit warm.”

 

“Of course. Wine?”

 

“Please.”

 

He pours for them both. “I own some of the finest drinkware in the world –” He gestures to the goblet he gave her. “Yet this old thing –” He lifts up his own, grinning ruefully – “Is my favorite.”

 

He watches her as she drinks; she can feel his eyes on her. She makes sure to drink slowly, lick her lips. When she’s done with her goblet, rather than refill it, she picks up the bottle and lifts it to her mouth, knowing that his mind will replace the bottleneck between her lips with something else entirely. “I’m not much of a lady,” she says impishly.

 

“No, you’re a queen and he’s a fool, the king, not to see what a queen you’d make. If I were him, I’d choose you over any pompous princess. I wouldn’t look at another woman if I knew you awaited me.”

 

He really thinks this rubbish will work on her? She knows she is capable and she doesn’t need him to tell her that. And the “pompous princesses” parading themselves before Bash . . . in a way, they’re all part of the plan.

 

“To hell with alliances,” Antoine says, taking the bottle from her hands.

 

“I’d toast to that, but didn’t you marry for an alliance?” she asks, as if she knows nothing.

 

“Yes, but I wasn’t a king in my own right. I didn’t have the freedom he does. If I had that, well . . .” He runs a hand along her cheek.

 

She practically purrs at his touch. It doesn’t come naturally to her, but it’s how Bash reacts when she strokes his jaw and it heats her blood to see that she has that effect on him, to see him putty in her hands. She assumes seeing that in her will have a similar effect on Antoine.

 

And it does.

 

She tips her head back, lets Antoine kiss at her neck because kisses on the lips feel like a greater betrayal. And this way, it will be more difficult for him to see that there is no lust in her eyes. “I – I’ve always wanted –” she pants.

 

“Wanted what?”

 

“To do something . . . adventurous.”

 

“Try me.”

 

“By the window.”

 

“All right.” He goes to close it.

 

“Leave it open.”

 

“Open?” he repeats dubiously.

 

“Open. I like the idea that people might see.” She sees lust flash in _his_ eyes at the thought and knows that she has him. “Sit, lean out just a bit, and –” She undoes the ties at the front of her dress; just as she expected, he is distracted by the sight before him.

 

He watches closely and tries to reach for her, but she swats him away.

 

“No. We’ll do this my way.”

 

Antoine’s eyes light with curiosity and arousal.

 

“You may look, but you can’t touch. Not yet.” She doesn’t want him touching her, holding onto her. She begins to kiss at his neck, but is careful not to undo any of his buttons or ties. “Yes.”

 

“That’s a girl,” he groans.

 

She palms at him over his breeches, distracting him so by her ministrations that he leans further and further out the window.

 

Far out enough that when the poison finally begins to take effect, Antoine completely loses his balance. He shouts, in shock, as he falls.

 

But then there is a thud and all is silent.


	24. negotiator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenna looks away from the window, from her handiwork, when she hears footsteps and sees the man she was waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Certain parts of this chapter may give you a bit of déjà vu. Sorry it's been so long since the last update!

When Antoine arrived, he had been given a room with a lake view ( _a view fit for a king_ ) – a view that, fortunately, also ensured he would be sufficiently high up enough that he would not survive a fall.

 

And there is a large enough party going on – Condé had advised his brother not to share news of his queen’s death until morning so that he could complete his planned revenge before departing for Navarre – that no one will have heard his scream.

 

\---

 

“You love him still. No, don’t lie, you do. You protect him as you do your children, love him as well. Differently, of course, but just as fiercely. As I loved Mary.”

 

“Yes,” she admits. She’s surprised by how easy it is to admit it to Condé when she still cannot say the words to Bash, could not acknowledge it explicitly to her own brother. Though she must resist the temptation to tell him he’d do better to give his wife his love and not the late Queen of Scots, despite what she knows. “Speaking of Bash –” _and our children_ – “I have one more condition . . .”

 

“And what is it?”

 

“You must agree to renounce your claim to the throne.”

 

“So that Navarre and my brother’s allies and my own principality don’t rise up to support me after he dies, in most mysterious circumstances, under the king of France’s roof?”

 

“It will signal that you trust us and will be a show of unity –” She nearly said _ahead of the annulment of your marriage_ , but now that she knows Claude is with child . . . And yet she cannot think about Claude now. There will be time enough for that later.

 

He nods. “I don’t want Bash’s throne. You know I only want Navarre because it is my brother’s.”

 

“Then we move forward as we planned.”

 

\---

 

Kenna looks away from the window, from her handiwork, when she hears footsteps and sees the man she was waiting for.

 

“It’s over,” she whispers, sagging against him.

 

Silently, he wraps his arms around her.

 

“My God . . . I just – I just let a man die,” she says in disbelief.

 

“Remember that he was no innocent and you did this for the right reasons. Do not forget that, but forget him and the rest of it.”

 

She nods against his chest and then looks up at him. She reaches up to stroke at his jaw that way that he likes.

 

His eyes close and he makes that sound low in his throat that _she_ likes. Slowly, he opens his eyes, looks at her for one long moment, and draws her in for a kiss.

 

\---

 

“I have to do _something_! Antoine is no innocent, and he will come after you, and Charlie, as he did Henry and Francis –”

 

“You say you fear you’re growing harder and I don’t want you haunted by the things you’ve done as I am,” Bash insists just as desperately.

 

“But I could never stand idle before a threat to our children. Or to you. Losing any of you to such a threat truly _would_ haunt me. We may never have a better opportunity.”

 

“Kenna –”

 

“Please trust me.”

 

Bash sighs. “I always will.”

 

\---

 

When they are finally in Bash’s chambers, he can’t keep his hands off her. It seems his need is too pressing to bother with getting her out of the blood-red dress she can no longer abide, but then he spins her around so that her back is to his front, lifts the dress over her head in one swoop, scattering buttons across the floor, and undoes her corset strings faster than he ever has before. Then he slows down, just a bit, coming to stand in front of her, and kisses her, walking her back through kisses until the backs of her knees bump against the bed.

 

She falls back onto the mattress, spread out before him. He stares at her, eyes hot, as he undresses himself with fumbling hands and tosses his clothes aside once he’s out of them before joining her. She never thought he’d find metaphorical blood on her hands so arousing.

 

“I’ve always hated myself for doing the expedient thing, the necessary thing, but now that you’ve done it, gone to any length for our children, for me . . . all I want to do is have my way with you,” he admits, sounding half-ashamed. But then his tone changes, “You’re magnificent.” He captures her mouth for another kiss then continues lower, breathing his awed words against her skin. “Perfect. Fierce and brilliant and brave, and beautiful besides. I love you.”

_I can feel myself growing harder, and I worry that I . . . that I’m becoming . . . someone you will despise._

 

 _Someone you will not love_ , she meant that day, and in this moment all the fears in her heart are soothed. “Come here,” she orders, pulling him up to kiss her again. “I love you, too.” The words come easily, cleanly, painlessly. The truth sets her free.

 

It should trouble her that the first time in years that he tells her he loves her and that she says it in return is after she’s – semantics aside about _letting_ him die – killed a man. But it doesn’t. The words feel like a blessing, a benediction, a blazing, beautiful miracle in her heart.

 

Bash pauses uncertainly, as if he’s not quite sure he’s heard her correctly.

 

“I love you,” she repeats. “And I’ll marry you again, if you’ll still have me.”

 

“Always.” Another kiss, but this one is different somehow. “Always,” he rasps again, lifting his head to look at her. He cups her face, his smile so brilliant it’s like staring into the sun.

 

At that, she realizes that there is nothing to weigh upon her anymore and she feels a smile spread across her own face. He, she, their children . . . they are safe. They are _free_. Her joy and contentment – the peace she hasn’t felt in so long – nearly bubble up out of her and, for a moment, she wants to laugh like a child from the pleasure of it all.

 

Then she looks at her husband-to-be, whose expression has turned hot and masterful, his smile positively wolfish, as he slides down the bed, making her bones go to water.

 

So she smiles and lays back, already feeling like a queen as she watches the king of France get on his knees before her, and anticipates an altogether different sort of pleasure.

 

_I want you to forget . . . every boy who ever smiled at you . . . every man who ever flirted with you._

_Everyone but me._

 

\---

 

They are woken early by Leith, who has been brought directly to Bash’s bedchamber, so urgent is the news of Antoine’s death considered.

 

She’s pulled the covers up past her shoulders, while Bash appears quite comfortable with only a sheet to the waist, the bastard. But she refuses to be embarrassed, looking at Leith dead on.

 

His serious expression morphs into a small, wry smile for a moment before it is gone and he turns his attention to Bash.

 

\---

 

No one learns what has happened to Antoine of Navarre until the Prince of Condé shouts his pretended sorrow after being brought word of his brother’s death. He demands answers and is brought Antoine’s false suicide note along with the real black-edged letter informing the King of Navarre of his wife’s death by servants who greet him as _Your Majesty_. Condé is his childless, newly-widowed brother’s heir and the crown of Navarre is now his for the taking.  

 

_After learning of my beloved Jeanne’s death, I can no longer bear to live with my blackened soul, despairing at the thought that I will never join her in the afterlife, in heaven with the righteous and holy. And so, in hopes of some small atonement and mercy from our Almighty Father, here I confess my crimes against my country and my kings and queens . . ._

 

Antoine takes the blame for Jean’s murder, for Francis’s death, and both kings’ madness. Even Catherine’s death is laid at his feet. Ultimately, they chose to omit mention of the attempt on Kenna’s life in Scotland; precious few people even know about it and she doesn’t want to draw further attention to herself as a potential target for Bash’s enemies.

 

They have their revenge and Lola some small justice for her son. Henry and Francis’s memories are redeemed. Louis will get his crown and some peace in his heart, at last, and Claude’s role in her mother’s death will never be suspected.

 

\---

 

She thinks they manage to feign the appropriate expressions of shock, anger, and horror well enough as Leith details the contents of Antoine’s suicide note.

 

“My father, Francis, his son – Everything they – we _all_ endured . . . My God. All of it, back to Antoine! If he weren’t already dead, I’d kill him. He deserved it. My God, he deserved it –” Bash takes a deep breath. “Still, is there any suspicion of foul play? Condé will surely demand answers. Perhaps an investigation.”  

 

It saddens her how Bash – frank and fearless as he once was – has become such a consummate liar, how in so many ways he had to kill the man he was to become the king, how that man paid the price for their safety. _No, he is still that man_ , she tells herself. _A good man._ And she – she’s only done what she had to do to protect their family.

 

“One of the goblets and a bottle of wine had traces of lip rouge –”

 

She hadn’t thought to – _My God, my God, my God . . ._ Is she imagining the way Leith looks at her then? She’d worn a deep crimson last night to match her dress and jewels.

 

“But Antoine was known to have been quite the ladies’ man. He might have had company – one last hurrah, if you will – before falling to his death.”

 

“Falling?” she asks.

 

“He was on his back, not his front, when he was found. He would have had to . . . let himself fall back, rather than jump forward.”

 

Neither she nor Condé had stopped to consider how strange that would look.

 

“Hmm,” Bash murmurs. “That’s odd. An unusual way to go.”

 

“Indeed.” Leith stands there for a moment as though not quite sure what to do with himself. “But as far as I can tell, Condé seems to accept things as they appear. I don’t think he’ll be any trouble; mostly, he was horrified at all that Antoine confessed to.”

 

“He must feel terrible,” she says softly. “To lose his brother and learn the kind of man he really was.”

 

“Indeed. Claude took it hard as well to learn all the harm her brother-in-law had done her family.”

 

Bash clears his throat. “Well, then, thank you.”

 

Leith nods and backs out of the room.

 

Once the door has closed behind him, she shifts to face Bash. “He knows.”

 

“Kenna –”

 

“Or suspects. At the very least, he suspects. The way he looked at me, how he said Condé wouldn’t be any trouble –”

 

“Kenna, he didn’t look at you any differently. And even if he did . . . well, Leith’s loyal to me. Do you think he cares how or why Antoine died? If he ever grows a conscience on the matter, I’ll remind him of everything in the letter and tell him Antoine admitted to it all.” He cups her face and kisses her. “Whatever happens, I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. Not even a little. Don’t think about it at all.”

 

She nods with a sigh she can’t help.

 

He pulls her back into his arms, her back to his chest, his legs on either side of her, and kisses her shoulder. “Don’t think on it yet,” he insists. “At least not until we leave this room. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. For now, think of everything that happened here, in this room, instead.” She can feel his small smile against her skin. “You’ve made me so . . . very . . . happy,” he tells her, punctuating each word with a kiss.


	25. accomplice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After breakfast, she goes to Condé – no, Louis, King Louis of Navarre now, she’ll have to get used to that. She finds him in the dungeon, staring dispassionately down at his brother’s body as he discusses funeral arrangements with his servant. He is pale, eyes tired, but his gaze on his brother’s corpse is dispassionate.

“We have to get dressed,” she reluctantly reminds Bash after a long while, extricating herself from his embrace to pick up her discarded gown.

 

Reluctantly, still naked, he rises from the bed to help her with the buttons that remain so that she can half-cover herself on the short walk from his secret door to her own.

 

She really doesn’t want to leave him.

 

“Kenna?”

 

She pauses mid-knock. “Yes?”

 

“Wait a minute.” He opens the nearest drawer, pulling out a small box she recognizes, with the familiar old ring. “You’ll have to have something else later, that’s appropriate for a queen –”

 

There’s a little thrill in her veins at the reminder that she will be a _queen_. Truthfully, she hadn’t thought about it last night when she told Bash she would marry him again, except after, when he’d knelt before her, just before he began doing things that made her forget her own name.

 

“But for now this –”

 

“Forever this,” she says softly. “I may have a grand betrothal ring later –” she smirks a bit – “but this ring . . . this one means everything. Such a queer feeling, whenever I look at it . . . a sort of certainty.” She smiles and he smiles back at her, clearly remembering her words as well as she does. “But Bash –”

 

His smile falters. “Yes?”

 

“We both know full well what the princesses are here for. I think we should wait to share our news.”

 

“Kenna –”

 

“For diplomacy’s sake,” she urges. She does not know what Diane meant about Savoy and, although she finds it disappointing that he would not tell her, she cannot ask him because then she would have to admit that she spied on their conversation. “With anyone. With what’s happened with Antoine . . . we’ll have a lot to be getting on with. This will be our secret. I’ll put the ring on a necklace to tuck into my bodice. Close to my heart,” she promises softly. “Just for now.”

 

Finally, reluctantly, he nods. “But not for long. I can’t wait to tell the children our news.”

 

She cannot help but notice that he does not mention Diane. If anything, the conversation she overheard tells her Diane will be angry and she doesn’t want to deal with that yet. She wants to be happy, only happy, a little longer. But already her own thoughts intrude to dim her joy.

 

While she does not want to dampen his enthusiasm and is loath to take up the burdens she thought herself free of last night, she is less eager to share the news with their children. Charlie is growing used to Bash, it is true, and if they’re fortunate enough, he won’t remember the time that came before when he is older. Tara, too, has warmed to Bash again, but it is still not what it used to be. She suspects Bash will always be _Father_ now.

 

She thinks they will have to start with explaining the truth of Bash’s actions, the dangers he meant to protect them from by setting them aside and staying away, before Tara can truly trust that this is real, that it will all last, that now they will truly be a family again.

 

\---

 

After breakfast, she goes to Condé – no, Louis, _King Louis of Navarre_ now, she’ll have to get used to that. She finds him in the dungeon, staring dispassionately down at his brother’s body as he discusses funeral arrangements with his servant. He is pale, eyes tired, but his gaze on his brother’s corpse is dispassionate.

“I’d like a private word,” she says.

 

Louis makes a dismissing gesture to his servant.

 

“My deepest condolences,” she says for the servants’ benefit.

 

Louis waves a hand at her, which she knows means _don’t bother_. There are no servants to hear her any longer – they’ve just heard his manservant’s steps up the stairs and the door shut behind him.

 

They’re silent for a long time.

 

“Do you think you can ever be happy?” she finally whispers.

 

His eyebrows rise in surprise, but he replies just as quietly, “Perhaps now that I’ve atoned for my part in all this.”

 

“I truly hope so.” She hesitates before continuing. “It . . . it seems your heart has been closed tight like a fist all these years because . . . because of Mary. Finally, your brother’s sins against her, against all of us – he’s been punished. It’s as over as it’s going to be.”

 

Perhaps Louis could be fooled into believing Claude’s child his own. Then there would be a cousin to her children on the throne of Navarre someday and, in the meantime, an aunt who truly seems to wish them well as its queen. It doesn’t even matter whether the child is a boy or a girl; in Navarre, daughters can inherit. And if Claude bears a daughter . . .

 

Already she is beginning to think like a queen.

 

She sighs. “You told me you came to me because I cared more about the living than the dead. Try to do that. Let yourself start anew. You’ve said yourself that deep down all Claude wants is to be loved because Catherine denied her that. Try to give her that now and see what sort of life you might have before you pursue an annulment or a divorce.” Hesitantly, very hesitantly, she reaches out and pats his hand. “At the very least, get your heir. After that, you could lead separate lives again, if you wished.”

 

When she lifts her hand, the look on his face is indecipherable. “She’s never been with child. She could be barren for all I know. Likely she is.”

 

It is quite the effort to keep her own face impassive. “It took Catherine ten years to bear a child,” she reminds him. “And then she had a whole passel of children. Perhaps if Henry had devoted more attention to her than to Diane it would have happened sooner . . . As it might for you if you spent more time in your wife’s bed and less in other men’s wives,” she hints in the least judgmental tone she can muster.

 

He rolls his eyes, recognizing her wordplay. “I seek her company often enough. But why are you suddenly against us annulling our union? I’ve held up my end of the bargain.”

 

 _Not entirely. Not_ yet.

 

“And you know there is no love lost between Claude and Bash, no loyalty.”

 

“No, the loyalty is between you and me,” she agrees. As accomplices. But that is not entirely true anymore. Bash, too, is softening toward his sister. “And I tell you this not out of political interest –” it is only half a lie – “but out of gratitude and out of . . . trying to do something good.” It is not entirely false. That is certainly part of it.

 

Louis nods as if hearing what she does not not say.

 

 _I am trying to balance the scales in my life after_ _soaking my hands in blood._

 

He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t refuse either, so hopefully, hopefully, it will all come right.

 

\---

 

“Good afternoon,” Leith says, nodding at Bash and then her when he is ushered in. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I was told you were done with your meal.”

 

“Just about,” she says.

 

Leith clears his throat. “If I could speak to you privately –”

 

“Anything you need to say to me, you can say in front of Kenna.”

 

“I –” Leith clears his throat, uncomfortably, again, but it’s only when his gaze falls on Tara and Charlie that she understands that it’s not her he’s concerned about.

 

“Nanny Moira!” she calls. “If you could sit with the children, we need a private moment with the king’s deputy.”

 

Nanny Moira comes to the table and nods her assent.

 

\---

 

“We captured a man who matched Lord Narcisse and Lola’s descriptions of the messenger they suspect of murdering your nephew,” Leith says once the three of them are alone in the sitting room.

 

“Oh,” Bash murmurs, clearly caught off-guard. “And you’re sure –”

 

“Narcisse has already identified him for us. And some of the guards recognized him. He’s worked here at the castle for many years, since King Henry reigned –”

 

“Have you gotten him to confess?”

 

Leith nods, almost seeming pained. It seems he doesn’t quite yet have the stomach for some of the things required of the king’s deputy. “Yes. He said he was ordered to deliver death along with Claude’s gift. He denied any knowledge that Antoine might have been behind it.”

 

“And have you gotten any more information from him?”

 

“No.”

 

“That’s not nearly enough. Try harder,” Bash commands.

 

Leith grimaces.

 

“Keep the news of his capture close; contain it to the guards who captured him, his jailers, Narcisse – I assume Lola must know if he does, and the three of us.”

 

Leith flinches ever so slightly.

 

“Who else have you told?” she asks, her first words of the conversation.

 

“Claude. She was so grieved at her nephew’s death that I thought – I thought she should know.”

 

There is part of her that wants to remind him that he is the _king’s_ deputy, not merely his sister’s guard any longer; that, as he is answerable to Bash alone, his duty is to Bash alone. But those are a queen’s words, a queen’s rebuke and she is not yet a queen. At her own request, they are not even sharing their plans to remarry yet. “Then you have to make sure she’s discreet like the rest of us,” she warns instead. “And also make sure he is guarded round the clock,” she adds. “We don’t want him dead – by his own hand or anyone else’s – before he can tell us everything that he knows.”

 

Leith looks to Bash and must find in his face the permission he seeks to obey her because he nods and departs without another word.

 

\---

 

She tosses and turns that night, awakening to Bash’s concerned frown the following morning, and fidgets through their breakfast _en famille_. It is a quiet breakfast, even though Diane joins them, as even the children seem to sense the tension and uncertainty in the atmosphere. Like the rest of them, Diane is nearly silent, although there is an air of relief about her, and she departs when the children do.

 

Kenna stays at the table long after even Bash has left, wondering if there is any chance that Antoine did not commit one of the crimes they heaped on his head. It would have made sense for the messenger to blame a dead man who could not contradict him, even if he hadn’t been behind the murder, as they blamed Antoine for Catherine’s murder. But that the messenger denied it . . .

 

She shakes her head. Likely Antoine arranged it through an intermediary. And even if he had not killed Jean, he did enough to harm them all that he deserved what he got.

 

What truly perturbs her is the the fear that their troubles aren’t over, that her unlikely ally, the new King of Navarre, whose path to the throne she smoothed by turning his brother’s revenge against him and seducing him into a deadly fall, could become her enemy, or that new enemies of whom she knows nothing may rise up to harm them, that they are not truly safe even now.

 

By nightfall, she has made herself so anxious that she wonders if Bash will taste her fear when he kisses her.

 

\---

 

The following morning, as she’s made to wait a while when she goes to Claude and she suspects Claude must be facing the same bouts of nausea that frequently troubled her during her pregnancies. She’s been waiting so long by the time Claude emerges, wan and a touch unsteady on her feet, sipping at some sort of tea, that she nearly does not bother with a civilized greeting. “Are you quite well?”

 

“I will be; Nostradamus brewed me a tisane.”

 

The healer, another among those precious few Bash trusts, returned to court at Bash’s behest when Catherine – who Nostradamus had sworn never to help again – was displaced by Diane, arriving to rule in his name. He was already in residence by the time Bash returned to court himself.

 

Kenna has seen little of the man because she has thankfully not needed his services.

 

As Claude draws closer, she can smell the tisane: ginger and something else under it . . . chamomile.

 

She stiffens and sits up. She knows chamomile can cause miscarriages; she’d kept Roman chamomile as part of her cache of herbs and leaves at Livingston House, the cache meant to serve as a last resort in case her precautions failed her – the cache she began keeping after Francis’s death until her marriage was annulled and again when she and John became lovers.

 

Does Claude mean to – Claude has been secretive, yes, but wouldn’t she have rid herself of the child long ago if she’d wished to? It’s not that she would judge her for it; it’s only that it’s dangerous to leave it too late.

 

“Claude,” she says with some concern. “Your tisane. It . . . it doesn’t smell quite right. Is there chamomile in it?”

 

Claude looks at her rather suspiciously. “Yes. Ginger, German chamomile, honey to sweeten it. Honestly, I think it’s foul, even with the honey, but Nostradamus assures me it’s just the thing for my stomach.”

 

“Oh, that’s all right then.” The German kind won’t do her harm. Of course Nostradamus wouldn’t give Claude something that would cause her to miscarry unless she’d asked for it. Easy now, she sits back, though an awful dark part of her wonders whether things might be easier for Claude if she did lose this child, this child whose future is so uncertain.

 

That makes her think of her fears about having a second child, her fears that the Valois blood in its veins would condemn it to madness after seeing the danger and pain Henry and Francis’s madness caused them and so many others. She is resolved anew that Antoine deserved exactly what he got, no matter the truth of Jean’s death.

 

She clears her throat. “Did you hear that the messenger who murdered Jean was apprehended?”

 

“Yes.” Claude shakes her head, eyes pained.

 

“I – I have to ask you something, because I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something missing. But you mustn’t tell –”

 

“Leith already told me that I mustn’t.”

 

“The messenger claimed he had no knowledge of Antoine’s involvement. Perhaps Antoine had an accomplice, someone else who . . . who might still be at large and a threat to my children, and to Bash,” she says finally, carefully.

 

“Don’t try to play me for a fool, Kenna,” Claude says with a sudden sharpness. “I know that note was a forgery.”


	26. inquirer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You mustn’t tell Bash; he’d never believe it,” Claude says in a rush.

“I – how do you figure?” she asks faintly, realizing there is no point in hiding that part of the truth from Claude.

 

“I know because Antoine wasn’t the sort of man who would ever be plagued by guilt and certainly not the sort of man who’d kill himself over it. I know because I know Antoine didn’t kill my mother. Only four people know who really did and clearly the forger must not have been among them.”

 

Claude herself, Diane, Louis, and . . . Kenna? Perhaps then Claude knows that she knows, but won’t admit it explicitly.

 

“But it wouldn’t surprise me if Antoine were guilty of the other crimes. So you don’t need to impress upon me the importance of answering your questions.”

 

She takes a deep breath. “All right then, so is there anyone else who could have known you were sending Jean a gift, besides Antoine and whoever crafted it?”

 

Claude does not answer right away, sitting down and clearly thinking quite hard for long enough to drive Kenna half-mad.

 

As the minutes march on, Claude says nothing and Kenna cannot quite tell if it is from having something to hide or nothing useful to say.

 

“Your husband, perhaps?” she tries.

 

That does the trick in unsticking Claude’s tongue. “No,” she says thoughtfully. “He wasn’t at court. Antoine and I would hardly have been lovers here if he were here, would we? That would’ve gone too far. Antoine was a –” Claude’s voice shakes just the smallest bit. “A _monster_ , but he did love Louis.”

 

Kenna raises her eyebrows and cannot help her sarcasm. “Loved him so much that he took his wife for a lover. Such brotherly devotion.”

 

Claude does not disagree.

 

“Wasn’t the whole point of that – for you – to anger him, anyway?”

 

“Not the _whole_ point. Antoine was a more than adequate lover,” Claude says with remarkable petulance after the trembling lips of moments ago. “Even if he was the worst sort of person, he was skilled in the arts of love. As for Louis . . .”

 

“Not so skilled in the arts of love?”

 

“Also more than adequate,” Claude admits. “That is, when he remembers who he’s in bed with,” she adds waspishly.

 

She has to resist the urge to laugh. She’s not entirely sure she understands what she and Claude bring out in each other; she cannot believe that they are discussing the Bourbon brothers’ prowess; Good God, what is _wrong_ with them, and most especially with her, when there are so many more important things to talk about? “As much as I’d like to hear more about your escapades –”

 

Claude clears her throat, restored to her earlier solemnity. “Unless Louis had a spy among my servants or Antoine himself mentioned it, there’s no way he could have known. He probably wouldn’t have bothered because he didn’t care what I did,” she adds. “And if Antoine did not use the information himself, he would hardly have bothered to pass it on to Louis. My husband, for all his flaws, isn’t half as bloodthirsty as his brother.”

 

If only she knew.

 

But then what little blood remained drains from Claude’s face.

 

“Claude?”

 

Claude remains silent, and this time it is clearly a choice.

 

“Please tell me. It’s important. If anyone besides Antoine was involved . . . My children, Bash, they could all be at risk. And it would give Lola peace to see the people behind her son’s murder brought to justice. I know you cared for him, too.”

 

“You mustn’t tell Bash; he’d never believe it,” Claude says in a rush. “Believe me. And we’re getting on better now . . .”

 

“All right,” she agrees, because she can see Claude will never reveal what she’s remembered unless she does.

 

“She would never harm Bash, and I can’t imagine that she would ever harm your children because they are her blood too, but Jean –”

 

 _They are her blood too_ . . . No. “Who?”

 

Claude looks at her as if to say, _do you truly need to ask?_ “Diane. Diane knew, because I mentioned it when I asked when your children’s birthdays were and what sort of gifts they might like. It had occurred to me that it wasn’t fair to leave them out of my gift-giving just because they were in Scotland.”

_Whatever threat that boy posed to him, Bash is too soft-hearted to have dreamed of harming him._

Diane is not.

 

_He wept as bitterly as I did when my sister’s boy died; if he faked his grief when he thought there none to hear but his mother he is a far better actor than you or I. Diane tried to tell him something, I could not hear what, but he ordered her away as well after that, I suppose wanting to be alone with his pain. Did you truly suspect him?_

 

No. But Diane . . .

 

“She knows your mother and Lord Narcisse were plotting to put Jean ahead of Bash in the succession,” Kenna says quietly.

 

“And I invited her here. _I_ invited her here! To spite my mother. Damn her. Damn her.”

 

Kenna is not entirely sure whether Claude means to damn Diane or Catherine or whether Claude herself is sure which woman she means. Though she feels desperately uncertain, she gingerly pats Claude’s shoulder.

“I might as well have killed him myself.” Silent tears, clearly unbidden, slip from Claude’s eyes and she swipes at them roughly.

 

“She would’ve found out some other way, surely, especially once they made any serious efforts that went to the Vatican. Claude, remember that she has friends there.” Kenna doesn’t know that this is entirely true, but exacerbating Claude’s guilt won’t bring Jean back. And it’s not good for her to work herself into extreme emotion. She considers saying so, but Claude mustn’t know that Tara told her anything. “Don’t blame yourself. She would have found another way. It isn’t your fault. Truly it isn’t.”

 

But what in God’s name is she supposed to do with this information?

 

\---

 

Her thoughts are a complete mess when she finally leaves Claude’s rooms. The evidence is circumstantial at best, but is that not what Bash had at times in his investigations as Francis’s deputy? And yet he always solved whatever case was presented to him. It’s unfortunate this is one case where she cannot ask his help; if she is to point a finger at Diane, she must marshal all her evidence before she brings it to him.

 

But can she? Should she? She cannot fault Diane for orchestrating Catherine’s death; is what she herself did to Antoine truly so different? That is the act of a mother protecting her child. She can, however, fault her for manipulating Catherine’s own daughter into doing it. And having an innocent _child_ killed, if she truly is guilty . . .

 

\---

 

Bash has never been one to talk and talk, but he is unusually quiet all day, unresponsive to her kisses when she tries to get him to stay in bed with her a bit longer, rising to dress hastily and leave with Andrew and Andrew’s old friend John Gordon. Andrew wishes to show John the recent improvements to the estate and John will be staying for supper and the night.

 

Bash barely speaks to her when he returns and gives Andrew, John, and Father one-word answers at supper.

 

After checking on the baby – well, not quite a baby anymore, Tara has already been moved out of their chambers – and watching her sleep for an embarrassingly long while, Kenna enters their bedchamber to find Bash sitting by the fire, Scotch whiskey in hand. It is probably exactly what Andrew and John are doing in the parlor, Father having retired when she did, and she wonders why Bash did not join them.

 

For a Frenchman, he has taken remarkably well to Scotch whiskey. Rarely if ever does he over-imbibe – and those rare times he is only following Andrew’s lead. Her brother, she’s realized since her return, has an inhuman capacity to drink large quantities without being any worse for the wear the next day.

 

“He would have been 21 this year,” Bash says quietly, words careful and slow but still faintly slurred and she realizes, with a sinking heart, that _he_ means Francis and that this is hardly the first whiskey Bash has attempted to drown his feelings with.

 

“Oh, Bash, I –” _I’m sorry_. The condolences she’d not dared to offer when they’d first learned of Francis’s death.

 

“I never told you, but I think . . . I think it was Henry’s fault. That he stopped trusting me.”

 

“Henry was _dead_ ,” she reminds him gently, hoping he hasn’t had enough to drink to make him clumsy before settling herself in his lap.

 

“But on his deathbed, Henry confessed to him he’d killed his brother – his namesake – by poisoning his water while they played tennis – _tennis_ – so that he would be king instead, because he knew he’d be a better king.” He takes another swallow. “Henry said that no one ever knew, that it was a weight he carried all his days, that it had blackened his soul irreparably. That my brother was like our uncle, that our uncle also feared the giving and taking of lives to a cause.”

 

She knows Bash has always been decisive in his doings, but disgusted and plagued by them after the fact.

 

 _Do you think the destructive things we do simply disappear?_ he asked softly one night after she woke him from a nightmare.

 

_If we did them with good intentions. At least I hope so._

 

 _But isn’t the road to hell is paved with good intentions?_  

 

 _I don’t think we’re on it_. _But if we were, I’d rather be on the road to hell with you than heaven with anyone else._

 

“He believed that Henry must have feared I might be just like him, that that was why Henry worked so hard to drive a wedge between us.” He drinks deeply.

 

“Henry was mad. You would never have hurt Francis. You loved him.”

 

“I would’ve laid down my life for him,” Bash corrects, words elongated with drink. “And you know I’ve never been never half so ambitious. He was raised to be king and even in that brief time I stood in his place, I could hardly bear it. I hated it. The last thing I’d ever want is a crown.”

 

“I know.” She plucks the whiskey from his hand and places it on the table beside them. “But it _would_ look rather nice. Such a contrast,” she adds, running her fingers through his thick dark hair as she tries for a small bit of levity.

 

“It would look better on you,” he disagrees, curling a lock that’s come loose from her upswept style around his finger; she’s had no chance to brush it out and braid it for bed. She prefers her hair down, but their daughter has been quite grabby of late and she doesn’t want to lose a hank of it to Tara’s grasping little hands.

 

 _But I’d want it as much as you do_ , she finds herself thinking. _Not at all._ There is a part of her that will always enjoy jewels and dresses and nice parties, that will wish for status and financial security, but she is no longer the girl Bash married, the one who whined about their lack of land and titles.

 

_The title I was expecting was the Duke of Anjou, with a château in Anjou, with a suite of rooms in Anjou._

 

Not after everything they’ve been through, all the uncertainty they’ve faced. In the intervening years, not even the duchy Catherine assured her would be theirs if she persuaded Bash to return and take up his place as king’s deputy again had convinced her that they ought to return to France. In Scotland, they are happy and well and _safe_ and that is enough. “I only care to be queen of your heart,” she replies, lips curving faintly.

 

“Well, that’s all to the good, seeing as it’s all I have to offer you,” he says with a self-deprecating smile belied by his dark, wanting eyes.

She tilts her head down for a kiss that tastes of whiskey and wistfulness, but also of love.

 

\---

 

She hopes that, with no poison to drive her mad, Claude won’t be weighed down by the same destructive guilt that plagued Henry and Francis.

 

Diane is Bash’s mother and grandmother to their children; if she truly was involved in Jean’s assassination, she acted to protect Bash. So even if Diane is a murderess, she is no threat to them; she would not turn against her family to hurt them.

 

But Jean was only a boy, the son of one of her closest friends, nephew to Bash, cousin to her children. Kenna may have blood on her hands, too, but it is the blood of a terrible man, a monster, not that of an innocent child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think the destructive things we do simply disappear?” is from 2x13.


	27. fiancée

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can’t bear the thought that she is working to ferret out a truth that, if in fact true, may crush Bash completely. She doesn’t know how she will go on acting as though all is well and normal, when it is anything but.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue from 1x19.

There is at least one other person who can help her, if not two, and she calls for them once she is returned to her own rooms. 

“After what the messenger said, I’ve begun to suspect that someone you’ve not yet considered was in league with Antoine in ordering Jean’s assassination, but before I say anything, I must swear you both to secrecy. You mustn’t tell anyone what I’m about to say. Especially not Bash,” she insists once the three of them are alone.

“Why?” Narcisse asks suspiciously.

“He won’t believe it unless we have proof. And I hope we don’t, that I’m wrong. I really do.”

Reluctantly, Narcisse nods.

Leith is less cooperative. “I’m his deputy; I won’t go against him.”

“Leith, please. I’m not asking you to go against him. He asked you to bring his nephew’s killer to justice, no matter who your investigation led to, didn’t he?” 

“He did.”

“And I’m asking you to complete the task he charged you with. But please don’t tell him of my suspicions unless I’m proven right. I hope I’m not. It would break his heart.”

Finally, Leith nods. “Who is it, then?”

“Diane.”

“Lady Diane? His mother?” Leith asks in disbelief.

Narcisse’s eyes narrow and he stares at her for a long moment. “It makes perfect sense. Then I was right –”

“No,” she interrupts sharply. “I know what your suspicions were, but I truly believe Bash wouldn’t have had it done.”

That elicits a surprised look from Leith, but he says nothing.

“Louis told me how he reacted when he learned of Jean’s death when he would’ve thought there was no one but Diane to hear. He was devastated, and no one who ordered a murder would react that way. If she arranged it, she did it without his consent or knowledge. She knew of your plots with Catherine to put Jean ahead of Bash – she told me so herself –”

Narcisse does not flinch or deny it. “Do not tell Lola.”

She does not reply.

“Kenna –” he insists, so desperate that he forgets his courtesies. “Please, I didn’t mean –”

Finally, she nods. “Unless you give me reason to, I won’t. It would only hurt her and wouldn’t give her back her son.” Self-interest aside, she would not cause Lola further pain for the world. 

At that, Narcisse does flinch. 

“Consider this my thanks for sheltering me, and my children, in your home.”

Narcisse nods. 

“As for Diane, she once enabled a siege on this castle that could have seen all three of Henry’s legitimate sons dead, not to mention Lola, Greer, and I, and many others.”

Narcisse’s eyes darken as soon as she mentions Lola and he brings them back to the reason why she asked them to attend her. “So you mean to go against the king’s mother.” 

“If she is a murderess, then yes. Will you help?”

“What a choice, his own mother or the mother of his children. Are you certain he will take your side over hers when you present your suspicions?” Narcisse demands.

“Yes,” she says simply. “So will you help?” she asks again.

“Certainly, Your Grace,” Narcisse agrees after a half moment’s pause.

Leith remains silent. It is Leith, as king’s deputy, that she really needs. 

If she knew with certainty that he was the father of Claude’s child, she would use that knowledge to press her advantage – blackmail him, if need be. She cannot bribe him with more lands and a better title, because those gifts are Bash’s alone to give, not hers.

Fortunately, he assents. “I will.” 

\---

She jumps with surprised guilt when she returns to her rooms to find her brothers, children, and aunt – even Nanny Moira, who despite all her years of service to their family has never sat with them for meals – waiting for her for supper along with Bash, who looks as though he is lit from within. 

She can’t bear the thought that she is working to ferret out a truth that, if in fact true, may crush him completely. She doesn’t know how she will go on acting as though all is well and normal, when it is anything but. “Have you shared our news?” she guesses brightly. 

Bash must have shared their news; her younger brother’s expression – which has been a dark scowl around Bash since the day he arrived – has improved to something perfectly neutral. 

And Nanny Moira actually looks approving for once, although she attempts to hide the expression by fussing over Charlie.

“I couldn’t help myself. But they’ve all promised to comply with your wishes.”

“Finally, you foolish girl,” says her nanny.

“Congratulations, my dear!” Aunt Fiona smiles.

Tara, who stands behind Bash’s chair, looks between them as though hardly daring to believe it. “Truly, Mama?”

“Truly.”

Tara’s lip wobbles and before Kenna can say anything else, her daughter bursts into stormy tears – the last reaction Kenna would have expected after her anxiety over the Austrians. 

Behind her, the smile drops from Bash’s face, replaced by a look of consternation and confusion. 

No one else dares to move, but she crosses the room in an instant, gathering Tara against her and stroking her hair. “Oh, Tara. Tara, darling, what’s the matter?”

“I – don’t – know,” her daughter sobs and if it were anyone else in the world, not her little girl sounding so heartbroken, she might have laughed. 

“I think she might just be overwrought. Everything going on – it can be a lot for a body,” Aunt Fiona says wisely. 

She finds herself looking up at her nanny for guidance, who nods sagely.

“For any of us, but she’s at the center of it,” Aunt Fiona continues. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” She comes to stand beside them and runs a comforting hand over Tara’s back. 

Once Tara’s tears calm to sniffles, she apologizes to Bash. “I’m sorry, Father.” She won’t look at him. “I didn’t mean to be such a baby.”

It seems that’s the jolt he needs, because he gestures for her to sit on his lap – like Kenna, seeming not to want to notice that Tara is not so small anymore. When she complies, he wraps his arms around her. “Don’t be sorry. It’s a lot for everyone.”

Tara swipes at her eyes with one hand. “I’m happy. I don’t want you to marry one of the princesses.”

“I was never going to.” 

“Good. I don’t know why I cried,” Tara complains with a haughty sniff. 

“It’s all right. It’s a lot,” he repeats. “After everything that’s happened. But we’ll be together now, you, your brother, your mother, and I. For good. Because now – Before, there were –” Bash takes a breath. “People that tried to hurt your mother. And they failed, but I was scared it might work if they tried again. I knew they wouldn’t try again if I married Queen Mary. They would leave you all alone. That’s why I stayed away for so long. But now that I’m king, I can protect her, and you and Charlie, and we don’t have to be scared anymore.”

“Good,” Tara says fiercely, cuddling closer.

Charlie attempts to squirm out of Nanny Moira’s grasp then. “Pa –”

“Jealous, are you?” Nanny Moira clucks.

Tara opens her arms for her little brother then, who toddles out of his chair and scrambles into her lap. 

The sight of the three people she loves best all together makes Kenna’s heart hurt with the sweetest sort of ache. 

But then she remembers they’re not the only people there. “Andrew?” she asks then, seeing as her older brother has yet to say a word. 

“We always thought your life would be here, though we could never have imagined this life. I know we’ve been on borrowed times these years together. I’ll miss you dearly, but I’m glad you’ll be happy again, little sister.” Andrew’s lip curls as he turns to Bash. “You better make her happy this time around. If you should should ever hurt her again . . . well, I’m Scottish, so I could go after the king of France without committing treason.”

“Andrew!” she scolds, as does a horrified Aunt Fiona. 

The look on Nanny Moira’s face, however, mirrors her darling Callum: a sly little smirk. 

Andrew throws up his hands with a too-innocent expression. “I’m just saying.”

Tara giggles, knowing her uncle isn’t serious, not now. Charlie joins in, though he can’t possibly understand what he’s laughing at. 

“I’ll give you no cause for concern,” Bash says seriously.

“Well now that supper’s gone cold,” Nanny Moira says disapprovingly into the sudden silence.

“You’re the king, aren’t you?” Callum reminds Bash. 

“Yes,” Bash replies uncertainly.

“Don’t sound so sure,” Nanny Moira mumbles.

“Can’t you just snap your fingers and have them bring something else?” 

Bash grins. “Ah, yes, the advantages of a crown.”

“So wasteful,” Nanny Moira clucks.

“We have to eat, Nanny,” Callum points out sensibly.

Nanny Moira sighs and Bash calls for a servant.

\---

Later, when they are alone in bed together, he looks at her with such love and warmth and want, all things she feels unworthy of tonight.

Look at me. Am I the only one in this bed with something to forget? 

What do you mean? 

When you’re with me, I want to be the only one inside your head. I want you to look into my eyes and see only me. 

He is the only person in her head, but her secrets and her guilt are a powerful distraction and she isn’t sure how she keeps them from her eyes, secrets and guilt that would douse his desire for her as surely as a bucketful of water.

\---

The Valois sisters call on her the following afternoon at tea time. They are getting along remarkably well, although Claude is more subdued than is her wont, and it is the easiest hour she’s spent in their company since Elisabeth arrived at Fontainebleau. She is almost disappointed when it comes to an end as Leith is shown in just as her guests have begun to make noises about departing. 

Claude’s eyebrows rise to see him. 

“Your Majesty, Claude, Kenna. I didn’t mean to interrupt –”

Elisabeth makes a dismissive gesture. “Not at all, we were just leaving.”

“Should we stay?” Claude asks innocently.

“No, it’s nothing . . . fit for your ears,” Leith replies uncomfortably.

“Ah, a naughty message from our brother, perhaps?”

“Claude!” From the way Elisabeth hisses her name, it’s easy to forget that Claude is, in fact, the elder sister and that they are both grown women. “I’ll take the opportunity to excuse both of us, before my sister does anything more to embarrass us all. Good day, Kenna, Lord Bayard,” Elisabeth says, half-dragging Claude away.

\---

“I’ve news,” Leith begins quietly after they’re alone.

“You’ve gotten more information from the messenger?” she guesses. 

“Yes.” Leith seems even more pained than he did the last time, reporting to Bash and her both.

“What is it?”

“He should hear it first, but you should be there.”

She is nearly dying of a strange mix of curiosity and dread, but fortunately Bash joins them shortly after, surprised to see Leith in her apartments.

“I came looking for you,” Leith says at once. “We’ve more information out of the messenger.”

“Did he tell you who he was working for?” Bash demands. “I doubt he killed my nephew for no reason. Did he point to Antoine? Or one of his agents? Antoine couldn’t have been stupid enough to commission the murder personally, could he?”

“He couldn’t name the man or whether the man might have been acting on behalf of someone else. He did, however, describe him.”

“And how did he describe him?”

Leith clears his throat. “He said the man wore a hood, but even so he could see that the man looked very much like the late king – your father – and was of an age with him. If King Henry still lived, of course.”

From the way Bash’s face darkens and his brow knits, she can see the moment when it dawns on him who the likely culprit is. “Could he identify the man if he saw him again?”

“The prisoner’s still alive, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good. Have Chateauroux apprehended and taken to the dungeon at once. Send someone for me when you’re ready.”

“I – with all due respect, I don’t think it’s really something . . . fitting for you to be involved with now. As king.”

“Taken under advisement but, as king, I’ll do what I wish,” Bash says firmly.

Leith’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly. “Of course. Your Majesty,” he adds formally with the bow he normally never bothers with.


	28. investigator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hears three knocks at her secret door that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. The next few chapters have been tricky - things really begin to pick up!
> 
> But if you haven't had a chance to also check out my new (and newish) Kennash one shots:
> 
> oh, my love, don't forsake me (take what the water gave me): http://archiveofourown.org/works/6165383  
> fidélité et bravoure (á l’écossée, la française, et l’anglaise): http://archiveofourown.org/works/6223747
> 
> And feel free to follow me on Tumblr for fic stuff, etc.: fyeahicygrace

She hears three knocks at her secret door that night. “Bash?”

 

“Yes, it’s me.”

 

She opens the door.

 

Bash looks as though he has the weight of world on his shoulders. “It was him. Chateauroux.”

 

She’s not sure what the right response is.

 

“My mother will be devastated.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” She rubs at his arm. “But she’ll have to understand, Bash. If he did this, he – he has to be punished.”

 

“He says he did it for her, that he knew smoothing my path to the throne would keep her safe.” He scoffs, disgusted. “A path to the throne soaked in a little boy’s blood. How could my mother keep such a man at her side?”

 

“Have – has anyone told Lola?”

 

He sighs again. “I summoned Narcisse to share what we’ve learned and left it to him to deal with Lola. I don’t know how I’ll face her.”

 

“And Diane? When will you tell her? _What_ will you tell her?”

 

“In the morning. The truth.” Despite the lack of invitation, he crawls under her covers, exhausted, and she doesn’t have the heart or the desire to turn him away.

 

\---

 

The following morning, she awakens alone and dresses quickly, heading to Bash’s rooms without the children for their usual breakfast. She enters despite the guards’ hesitation to admit her; while they dare not disobey their king’s direct standing orders to admit her whenever she wishes, they hesitate nevertheless. She realizes why when she hears the raised voices within.

 

Diane sounds hoarse and half-mad. “I don’t know how, I don’t know by whom, but he’s been framed, tricked, entrapped – Perhaps Condé to clear his brother’s –”

 

“He _confessed_ , Mother! He confessed. I heard the words from his mouth myself. He said he did it for you, that he did it to clear my path and so protect you. Jean was a _child_.” Bash sounds anguished as he says it.

 

“I just can’t – oh, Eduard,” Diane whispers.

 

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

 

With a sinking heart, she realizes that Bash trusts his mother implicitly.

 

And then . . . then, she wonders if she is wrong, if Diane truly was ignorant of Chateauroux’s doings. Perhaps he simply overheard mention of Claude’s gift as Claude believed Antoine had. Perhaps Diane is innocent.

 

“I – I know it was a terrible thing to do, but can’t you have mercy on him? He did it to protect you out of love for me – to –”

 

“No,” Bash cuts Diane off sharply.

 

Kenna turns on her heel and walks away.

 

\---

 

In the middle of the night, she wakes up in a cold sweat from dreams of Scotland. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “ _Oh my God_.”

 

“Kenna?” Bash asks, grasping blindly for her, uncertain in the darkness.

 

“I – I had a dream about Scotland, when we were at court, before you – before you and Mary –”

 

“What about it?”

 

“That the attempt to poison me was successful.”

 

“But it wasn’t. You’re fine and I won’t allow any harm to come to you. It’s all right –”

 

But it isn’t, because Chateauroux –

 

He was in Scotland when she was nearly poisoned and she doubts again her brief moment of mental charity toward Diane.

 

\---

 

After breakfast, she seeks out Louis, who sits alone in the garden despite the briskness of the day, staring pensively at the royal signet ring that is now his by rights as King of Navarre.

_My brother told me he had plans against your life before Bash’s legitimization. I told him not to do it, but clearly he did not listen. When the change to the succession was announced, he was furious that instead of losing a beloved wife, Bash was gaining a queen and a throne._

 

Even though they are quite alone, she whispers. “Did Antoine – did he ever actually tell you that he attempted to have me poisoned?”

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“I now have reason to think the true mastermind may have been someone else, someone who is very much alive and very much in a position to do me harm.”

 

Louis frowns thoughtfully and, after a longer pause, gives her the answer she expects. “He told me he would, but never that he actually had.”

 

Could it be?

 

Or is she wrong? Was it just Catherine, then, as everyone had suspected for years? Perhaps even Chateauroux on _Catherine’s_ orders?

 

“Who is it that you suspect?”

 

She hesitates.

 

“Suspect of what?” Claude interrupts from behind her.

 

“Of ordering me poisoned in Scotland,” she blurts out. “And in doing so, scaring Bash into setting me aside for Mary.”

 

“Who else besides my dear departed mother, who wanted a counter to Antoine?”

 

“Diane,” she says so quietly they must both lean closer to hear her.

 

Claude fists her gown in her hands. “First Jean and now this. It all makes sense, and none of us ever suspected her.”

 

“Jean?” Louis echoes.

 

Claude hesitates a long moment. “I don’t think your brother killed himself. He wasn’t the sort of man who would ever be plagued by guilt and certainly not the sort of man who’d kill himself over it. And he didn’t kill my mother, but whoever forged that note must have believed he did.”

 

Louis presses his lips together, giving her a worried look from behind Claude’s back, but when he finally speaks, his words are startling. “Or wanted to protect the person who really did.”

 

Claude’s eyes widen and, after a long moment, she parts her lips as if to speak, but says nothing.

 

Louis takes his cue from her and continues as if neither he nor his wife had said anything out of the ordinary, as if they had not both stopped short of confessing to murder. “It would not surprise me to learn that she’d had the boy killed,” he says quietly. “But trying to murder you, Kenna? When her son loves you so?”

 

“When his love for me was the only thing standing between him and a crown,” she corrects.

 

Louis and Claude sport nearly identical looks of dawning comprehension in that moment.

 

“Of course,” Claude breathes.

 

“But now we must prove it.”

 

“We?”

 

“I, Narcisse, Leith, Claude –”

 

“Why Claude?” Louis interrupts sharply.

 

“Leith is meant to be impartial, but she has as much reason as Narcisse or I to want revenge against Diane –”

 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

 

“And Claude is known to have enjoyed Diane’s company for the sake of needling Catherine, so –”

 

“I said _no_!”

 

Claude’s eyes are wide with surprise at his uncharacteristic behavior; perhaps that is why she says nothing.

 

“Fine,” she yields icily. It’s the first time she’s ever heard Louis raise his voice and it makes her wonder what precisely has passed between husband and wife of late.

 

He nods curtly.

 

Yet no matter what has changed her ally’s feelings toward his wife, she will not be disrespected. “But you will not shout at me ever again. If you do, I assure you Bash will know of it and I doubt you want him against you.”

 

He nods again, rises, and holds his arm out to Claude. He inclines his head to her and departs wordlessly.

 

She sits alone in the garden for a long while, head spinning with half-formed thoughts.

 

\---

 

She’s not particularly fit for company that evening, but she’s meant to have supper with her brothers, just the three of them for once, as the children are to eat in the nursery, Aunt Fiona has been invited to dine with Lord Desrosiers, Lady Adelaide, and the Castleroys, and Bash is entertaining his sisters and the princesses. She cannot beg off.

 

But she is so little use for conversation that Andrew asks “for God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” after he’s forced to ask her the same uncomplicated question a third time.

 

She blinks. “I’m sorry – I – I’ve a lot on my mind, what with Jean’s murderer captured –”

 

Andrew’s tone softens. “Of course.”

 

“Well, you could’ve told us you didn’t want company,” Callum grumbles. “We had other invitations.”

 

She decides to humor her younger brother. “Did you?”

 

“Yes, we were included in Aunt Fiona’s supper invitation from the Desrosiers,” Andrew answers for him. “He’s pouting because Adelaide has a pretty little maid he’s rather sweet on.”

 

“Andrew!” Callum hisses, coloring. “That’s a lie, Ken, he’s –”

 

“I’m sure it is,” she agrees to placate him, but she cannot contain her laughter and Andrew joins in, leaving Callum no choice but to shoot them dark glares and mutter imprecations.

 

\---

 

She can hardly sleep for thinking on the matter and her mind is elsewhere entirely as she dresses herself the following morning – Gabrielle selects a golden day gown, set off with the topaz brooch from Cardinal Bellagio, to which she submits without comment – and through breakfast, barely tasting the little food that does pass her lips.

 

The only people at court at the time who could have knowledge of the particulars behind Bash’s legitimization and the annulment of their marriage besides Diane, who of course she cannot ask about them, are Claude and Condé, both of whom seem to have told her all they know. She sighs and fiddles unhappily with the brooch at her waist, frustrated at hitting a dead end.

 

And then she remembers another.

 

\---

 

“Your Grace,” Cardinal Bellagio inclines his head in greeting before she bends to kiss his ring of office as is proper. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“I’m afraid you won’t think it a pleasure for long, Your Eminence.”

 

“Well, before we talk of whatever matter creases your brow so, I offer you my congratulations.”

 

 _How –_ She resists the urge to touch the ring resting beneath her dress, near her heart.

“The Vatican is still considering the king’s request for a dispensation so that you may marry, but with your assent signaling the intent to marry once and if such a dispensation were granted, my hope is that matters will move along more quickly now. I know you wish to keep things quiet for a time, so, as I’ve told the king, it is being handled with the utmost discretion.”

 

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

 

“Now, daughter, what did you wish to speak of?”

 

“Now that the king and I mean to move forward together, I wish to know more about the circumstances of his legitimization and ascent to the throne.”

 

“I see,” the good cardinal murmurs. “It is a long and winding tale and I am quite parched, so I shall call for some wine.”

 

“That would be very good.”

 

\---

 

“What precisely do you wish to know?” Cardinal Bellagio asks after his servant has poured their wine and left to give them privacy.

 

“Whose idea was it to have the king marry Queen Mary? I am told the original match proposed was between Mary and the Prince of Condé following an annulment of his marriage to Princess Claude.”

 

“That is correct. After King Charles had a bout of illness serious enough that I was secretly called to administer last rites, Queen Catherine expressed interest in such a match, in exchange for his and the King of Navarre’s renunciation of their claims to the throne of France.”

 

If Catherine was desperate enough to make _that_ proposition, she must truly have felt that she had her back against the wall – in desperate enough straits that she was ultimately willing to orchestrate the legitimization of her husband’s bastard by the rival she despised like no other.

 

“His Holiness was . . . most unhappy with that proposition. An interfaith marriage involving the Queen of Scots would have been damaging to the cause of Catholicism when Catholics in Scotland were already so weakened. However, no one had a good alternative until –” Bellagio hesitates a moment.

 

“Until?” she prompts impatiently.

 

“Lady Diane presented an alternate proposal.”

 

Chateauroux – who is so widely known to be My Lady the King’s Mother’s lover, because they did not bother to hide it – was arrested when the royal councilors were gathered all together waiting to meet with Bash, who did not bat an eyelid when he walked in to see Chateauroux being seized. With Chateauroux imprisoned, Cardinal Bellagio must scent the blood in the water, or else he would not dare speak against Diane, even to her.

 

“She had been a sympathetic friend to the Church in the past, when her power with King Henry was at its height, always pressing the Vatican’s cause with him when Queen Catherine could not. I did not know whether His Holiness would be amenable to that proposal, but Lady Diane nevertheless had it put to Queen Catherine: legitimizing Lady Diane’s son and changing the succession to put him and his heirs behind King Charles and his heirs, so that the Bourbons would see there were more Valois to contend with and would be put off stirring up trouble, and marrying him to Queen Mary instead.”

 

 _Had it put to_ – by whom? By the good cardinal himself, most likely, but with her he would not want to take credit for a plan that ended her marriage and bastardized her children when he knows she will be queen now, would he?

 

“Queen Catherine, to my surprise, agreed but decided to wait to make her proposition to Queen Mary until the Pope could render judgment as to the possibility of the king’s legitimization. As you know, his decision was a favorable one –”

 

So perhaps Mary did not truly reject Condé, but she cannot think of Mary or what that means for her feelings toward her late queen and former friend now.

 

“But you know the king, as he is now, is a most . . .” Bellagio clears his throat. “Determined man.

 

 _A most stubborn, obstinate, willful man_ , she amends wryly to herself. “Indeed.” They have always assumed . . . “So Catherine decided to poison me?”

 

He starts in what she thinks is genuine surprise.


	29. conspirator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If not Catherine, then was it – “Was it Diane?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am VERY interested in hearing what everyone thinks of this one!

“You see, an attempt was made to poison me not long before my marriage was annulled,” she explains.

 

Bellagio pauses thoughtfully, finally saying, “I don’t believe so, Your Grace. Queen Catherine would have told me so in confession.”

 

“But you could not tell me if she did tell you so in confession, could you?”

 

“Nor would I lie to you – I am a man of God, after all – and say she hadn’t. I would say nothing.”

 

“But would she have named her victim?”

 

“No, but she did not confess to attempts – successful or otherwise – to poison in that period, at least that I can recall.”

 

“Not to you.”

 

“It is unlikely she would have confessed to another. I suppose not impossible, but highly unlikely.”

 

If not Catherine, then was it – “Was it Diane?”

 

His eyes widen. He is silent for a long while. “She has not told me such,” he begins carefully. “But that does not mean she did not. Unlike Queen Catherine, who confessed her sins in exacting detail, Lady Diane’s confessions are . . . perfunctory, at best.”

 

Of course. Diane is no true Catholic; she is a pagan masquerading as the Catholic mother of a Catholic king.

 

“And Lady Diane could not get her son legitimized whilst King Henry lived, yet never stopped wanting a crown for him. Finally, the opportunity presented itself – an opportunity her son meant to turn down, she told me. He was never keen, but he did not outright refuse it until he was told he must marry the Queen of Scots in return. I suspect he found the price too high.”

 

“The price being me,” she finishes. “Our marriage. Our family.” A price Diane was probably all too willing to pay for him.

 

Bellagio says nothing.

 

No doubt Diane would have been willing to pay the price of little Jean’s life as well, as she already suspected. But still she has no _proof_.

 

“Anyway, Queen Catherine had acted in the matter of one swallowing the foulest of medicines and remained deeply unhappy at the possibility of Lady Diane’s son and his heirs on the throne rather than her own blood. The king had appealed mainly because he could bind Scotland to France by marriage without creating the same sorts of obligations to Scotland as there were when King Francis reigned. But she began inquiries into changing the succession again when she learned of Queen Mary’s pregnancy from Lord Narcisse –”

 

 _Narcisse plotted with Catherine to put Lola’s son ahead of Bash_.

 

“How did Diane learn of Catherine’s new plans?”

 

Bellagio shifts guiltily, but shakes his head. “With King Charles sickly and her son next in line to the throne, Lady Diane suddenly found herself with a great many people attempting to curry her favor and, like most powerful men, Lord Narcisse had enemies enough who did not wish to see him as his stepson’s regent – the other privy councilors, for instance, and the great landowners who wished to rise to their ranks.”

 

That is true, but still she doubts that Bellagio speaks the entire truth.

 

“Then the poor child was murdered and Queen Catherine grew even more desperate. And when her son died after that, she nearly lost her mind. She wanted her son-in-law to challenge the king’s place in the succession; she would rather her daughter be queen consort to a Protestant Bourbon than Lady Diane’s son on the throne, regardless of what it meant for Catholicism in France. Regardless of Princess Claude’s – well, Queen Claude, as she is now – wishes.”

 

“Claude’s wishes?”

 

“I have never met a woman less desirous of a crown. Those to whom Queen Catherine spoke of the matter were expressly forbidden to speak of it to her. Or to her husband, for that matter.”

 

But not to others . . . Did Bellagio tell Diane of Catherine’s plans to replace Bash with Louis, too? Is he merely sharing this all with her now because he sees _her_ as the rising sun and Diane’s influence waning?

 

“Queen Catherine wished to present it as a _fait accompli_.”

 

“But Antoine would have come before his brother.”

 

“Likely Queen Catherine would have found a way. But nothing came of it; she died shortly after.”

 

Is Catherine’s final attempt to prevent Bash from taking the throne after Charles’s death the true reason Diane persuaded Claude to kill her? Did she tell Claude of Catherine’s desire to give her a crown she did not want, or would she have feared Claude’s distaste for queenship would dissipate in the face of a real chance at it? Did she fear Catherine would stop at nothing, would see Bash dead rather than see him take the throne?

 

For that, at least, she could not blame Diane. “Thank you, Your Eminence,” she says finally, rising from her seat.

 

“I am happy to help, daughter.”

 

She kisses his ring again and sees herself out.

 

\---

 

 

When she returns to her rooms, she finds Elisabeth awaiting her.

 

“What a lovely surprise,” she manages.

 

“You don’t need to bother with the pleasantries,” Elisabeth says with a small laugh. “I’ve come to tell you something I know will interest you.”

 

“And what is that?” she asks, sitting down across from Elisabeth.

 

“While I am certain Bash will never marry anyone but you, his dear mother is not so certain. She seems sure she will persuade him to marry one of my husband’s nieces.”

 

Kenna already knows Diane desires such a match, notwithstanding what Bash wants, and she is increasingly convinced that she is _still_ not safe. “Why are you telling me this?”

 

“I think we can help each other get what we want.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Another Habsburg-Valois marriage.”

 

“But not between Bash and one of your husband’s nieces?”

 

Elisabeth scoffs. “Of course not. I don’t care to strengthen Maximilian and, as I’ve said, I know Bash will never marry another. Instead, I seek a stronger alliance between Spain and France. Specifically, that once your son is legitimized and recognized as Dauphin – as we both know he will be unless Diane succeeds in interfering – he is betrothed to my younger daughter, Catherine Michelle.”

 

The elder, Isabella, is already promised to the Holy Roman Emperor’s son. So Elisabeth means to have for her husband’s kingdom alliances with the Holy Roman Empire and her own native country, while keeping them apart. She wonders if this is what Elisabeth wanted all along, knowing as she did that Bash would not marry another.

 

From the way Elisabeth smiles, like a cat with a bowl of cream, she suspects it is. Elisabeth is far shrewder than Kenna gave her credit for.

 

“That’s what you really came here for, isn’t it?” Kenna asks.

 

Elisabeth shrugs innocently. “That is neither here nor there, really. But if you agree to it, Philip will demand that Maximilian stand down in Savoy.”

 

“Savoy?” she echoes. “I know there’s trouble there,” she adds, embellishing with what she’s guessed. “I hear rumblings regarding the Emperor and Savoy. But Bash and I haven’t had a chance to speak about it. With Antoine and everything we’ve learned about Jean’s murder . . .”

 

Elisabeth gives her a slightly suspicious look, but explains. “Maximilian has made an alliance with the Duke of Savoy, husband to our aunt Margaret, Duchess of Berry. He has troops stationed in Savoyard dominions, lying in wait to threaten France, to take French territory. There have already been skirmishes at the border.”

 

“And he would hold off if Bash married one of his daughters?” Kenna guesses.

 

“Yes. Removing those troops would be one of the concessions he’d make in a marriage treaty.” Elisabeth drops her voice. “But as I said, Philip would stand against him if we agreed to a betrothal between our children.”

 

“You know I cannot speak for Bash.”

 

“I daresay you could, but I understand why you wouldn’t. I haven’t offered you much except information, that you may know Diane is not your friend.”

 

“And I thank you for it.”

 

“You’re most welcome . . . sister,” Elisabeth says with the faintest smirk.

 

“Kenna,” she hears from behind her before she can say anything else and she turns to see Claude, looking very determined and with a very firm grip on Gabrielle’s arm.

 

“Tell your mistress what the king’s mother asked you to do.”

 

Gabrielle’s lips tremble, but she does not speak. 

 

“She is in danger. Did you not tell Lady Diane you would not harm her? I heard you. So why won’t you tell her what the danger is?”

 

Gabrielle nods. “My Lady the King’s Mother asked me to put something in your cup at supper, when you are dining privately,” she manages shakily.

 

She cannot focus on the shock she is somehow still experiencing over the fact that Diane obviously wishes her dead. Diane had once told her that Catherine had given her poison to use on her, but that she’d refused to do it. It was obviously a lie to gain her trust all those years ago. First Aylee had died in her place and then Lady Walton. _God rest their souls._

“You must tell the king at once,” Elisabeth says when no one else speaks.

 

“No,” Gabrielle says desperately. “Please, I could not speak ill of the king’s mother to the king!”

 

“She asked you to poison the mother of his children,” Claude reminds her sharply.

 

“When I was first put in your household, Your Grace, it was to report back to the king’s mother on your activities. I do not like it, and I say as little as I can, but that is why I was put here and she has said I must help her or my family will suffer for it.”

 

“Then you will go back to her,” Elisabeth says at once. “And tell her you understand your duty and you will do as she asks, and we will lay a trap for her.” She turns to Kenna. “Will you speak for Bash now?”

 

She nods at once.

 

“Very good,” Elisabeth says with no small satisfaction. “So long as you live to become his queen and to see your children legitimized, I’m sure you’ll have no problem getting him to live up to your end of the bargain. And I, in turn, will make sure you do live.” Elisabeth smiles darkly then, clearly relishing the opportunity to take down Diane, the woman who was the greatest thorn in her beloved mother’s side, while being able to call it true justice.

 

\---

 

“It is done,” Gabrielle murmurs in her ear as she dresses her hair the following morning.

 

“You are very brave,” Kenna tells her. “And we will protect your family. I promise you that. You will never have to fear for them again.”

 

Gabrielle nods gratefully. “Queen Claude is outside, Your Grace.”

 

\---

 

“I know Gabrielle did as we bid,” Claude says without preamble. “Because –” She lowers her voice. “Diane tried blackmailing me into going against you. She clearly means to pin the blame for her little plot on me.”

 

“I almost wish that surprised me. What did she try to hold over your head?”

 

Claude hesitates. “Something I think Bash might thank me for, in the end. Or at least understand.”

 

Killing Catherine, most likely. Why does Claude continue to act as if Kenna knows nothing about it? Unless the fourth person she meant was her confessor . . . Yes, that could be it.

 

“And I told her that. But she brought up a secret that’s not entirely a secret, and she’s half-wrong anyway, so it wouldn’t sway me, and I told her the person she meant to tell already knew.”

 

“And what’s that? The secret? If you don’t mind my asking . . .”

 

Claude hesitates again. “I’m pregnant.” It seems Kenna cannot feign surprise so well as other emotions, because a look of understanding dawns on Claude’s face. “Did you guess? No, Tara told you, didn’t she?”

 

She looks away, not wanting to break her promise to her daughter.

 

But Claude takes her avoidance for the _yes_ that it is. “She did. Even at that age, I would’ve kept a secret from my mother. But the two of you are so close.”

 

“She begged me not to tell anyone. I haven’t. Not even Bash.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

She’s simply dying of curiosity to know who the father of Claude’s child is, but it seems extraordinarily rude to ask, so she’ll have to stew in her curiosity and hope it won’t kill her.

 

But then Claude continues softly, “I wanted to tell Louis in my own time, to be sure it would . . . stick.”

 

“Louis?” she squeaks in disbelief. She can feel herself flush, mortified, and hopes Claude doesn’t realize why she sounded so astonished.

 

But Claude laughs remarkably good-naturedly. “Oh, I don’t blame you for wondering. Our reputations precede us.”

 

 _So how can you be sure?_ Are _you?_ Or is Claude about to pass a possible cuckoo off as heir to the throne of Navarre? Either way, now Louis’s behavior this morning makes sense. “Was he pleased?”

 

“I haven’t told him yet –”

 

“Oh, I assumed – he was so vehement about you not getting involved –”

 

“No, I – I lied to Diane. I haven’t said anything yet, not with everything that happened with Antoine. He’s taken it hard, despite everything.”

 

Could he truly mourn so monstrous a man? “You should soon.”

 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Claude asks ruefully.

 

“Once I knew.”

 

“Thank you for your honesty,” Claude says, making a bit of a face. “Anyway, she pressed me again on the first point, insisted that Bash wouldn’t react half so well as I believed.”

 

It doesn’t seem like a good idea to say she already knows, so she remains silent.

 

“So I pretended to agree. It will make our plot all the easier.”

 

She nods, half-distractedly, before asking the question that has been bothering her. “Do you trust Elisabeth to help us?”

 

“You know we aren’t close, but we . . . we had a good long chat after Antoine was found. She came as soon as she heard; she’d heard all the details of the note and she stayed here with me when Louis wished to be alone.”

 

“What did you talk about?” It has nothing to do with their plotting, but she knows well that Claude likely has very few people she can speak freely to.

 

“So many things . . . Francis, what it was like as he went mad. Mother. My mother used Francis’s Bible after he died. It explains so much now that I know how Father and Francis came to their madness . . . After she died, her maid said that, in her sleep, she talked of how I killed my baby sisters. They were twins. Of course I didn’t; really, I didn’t. I was only five when they died.” Claude’s eyes fill. “But now I know why she . . . she tried to poison me. My mother. But Leith caught on. He saved me.”

 

“Oh, Claude –” She cannot imagine how it must feel to know that your mother wished you dead. Even knowing her former and soon-to-be again mother-in-law wishes her dead was a shock – _is_ a shock – but to learn Mother wished it would have been unbearable.

 

Claude shakes her head. “It’s in the past. We spoke about Jean, too. Elisabeth had had enough wine for both of us and I’m so sensitive lately, we were both crying like babies.” Claude sighs. “You know, she thought I should seek an annulment because of what Antoine did to our family.”

 

“But – Would you want one? I mean –”

 

“No, not now.” Claude places a gentle, hesitant hand on her belly, as though she believes it will break under her own touch. “And it’s not as if Louis had any part in it.”

 

Kenna bites her lip, hoping her secrets do not show in her eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not trying to imply that Diane also killed Aylee – since we know it was Clarissa – but everyone in the story will certainly suspect her, as Kenna did on the show.


	30. target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two nights later, she arrives at Elisabeth’s suite for supper, feeling as though she might faint from nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to the edge of your seats, kids.

Two nights later, she arrives at Elisabeth’s suite for supper, feeling as though she might faint from nerves. By the time they all – Bash, Diane, Elisabeth, Claude, Louis, Leith, and she – are seated, she is so tense she can scarcely breathe. The only thing worse would have been having the princesses join them, but Elisabeth saw to it that they were invited to supper with Mendoza and Cardinal Bellagio.

 

“Don’t drink that,” Claude snaps, nearly knocking the goblet Elisabeth’s servant has passed Kenna out of her hand as they are served their wine.

 

But not quite, and Kenna makes sure to tighten her grip on it. “Why not?”

 

“It smells very nice, doesn’t it? Well, it will do something _not_ very nice to you if you drink it.”

 

“Claude?” she asks softly.

 

“Even under the other scents, I’ll never forget the smell of it. Diane wanted me to kill my mother and to use the same tincture that’s clearly in this t –”

 

Diane, on the other end of the table, interrupts, “I did not ask you to do any such thing!”

 

Bash is furious, and disbelieving. “Of course not. And this – if there even is poison in that cup, you could have planted it yourself, Claude.”

 

“She must have,” Diane agrees.

 

“I didn’t!” Claude retorts. “I swear I didn’t, Bash.”

 

“Why should I believe you over my own mother, when you never liked Kenna?”

 

“We’ve made our peace,” she interjects gently. “You know we have.” She hesitates to say more. She fears being shown the same anger that Claude has elicited. She knows what it is to be out of a king’s good graces. To be in the king’s presence is to stand tall in the sun and to fall out of favor is to be banished into the shadows of the night. She is supporting his mother’s accuser, an accuser who claims his mother meant to harm _her_. He loves her; she knows he does, knows it in her very bones, but this may be something he will not tolerate even from her. And yet she must. She masterminded it all. “Please hear Claude out; I beg you.”

 

Diane gives her a horrified look. “You –”

 

“Please.” She gives Bash a pleading look. It’s nakedly manipulative.

 

And it’s entirely effective. At once, something changes in his eyes. He’d consigned himself to a loveless marriage and a lifetime of her hatred to save her. Hearing Claude out is a small price to pay now. “That’s a very serious accusation,” he says, remarkably evenly.

 

They are well aware that they must convince him of the truth of their accusations.

 

He continues in that same too-even tone. “I sincerely doubt my mother means you harm, so I imagine this is some misunderstanding. Claude, I would like you to explain yourself so we can clear it up.”

 

“You know that Diane took my mother’s rooms for herself while my mother still lived. She saw it as her due as the mother of the new king and his regent –”

 

“That is true, but that hardly means I wanted Catherine dead,” Diane snaps. She is pale and her eyes are anxious. She knows they are closing in on her.

 

“You tried to wind me up to do what you lacked the courage to do yourself –” A careful, but necessary lie, because Claude _did_ kill her mother. “And now your maid. It’s bold of you, bolder than I expected, to try and kill Kenna before –”

 

“I did no such –”

 

Claude interrupts, “You’ve toughened up, Diane.”

 

“ _Claude_ ,” Bash warns.

 

“It’s the truth. She involved the maid she put in Kenna’s household as a spy.”

 

“Bash, this is ridiculous, I didn’t –”

 

“I heard the girl say so myself,” Elisabeth interrupts. “Diane threatened her family. The poor thing was terrified. And this after she told me she was so certain you would marry one of my husband’s nieces, thinking I would want one of them as queen of France as much as she does –”

 

Diane seems even more desperate. “ _She’s_ always hated me. Catherine –”

 

“Speaking of my mother,” Claude says loudly. “I’m very sure it’s the same poison that killed her. But just to be absolutely sure, have someone fetch Nostradamus and tell him to bring a creature he is willing to test a tincture on. He examined my mother before she was prepared for burial, after all.”

 

“None of this is _true_!” Diane says desperately.

 

“No one says another word until Nostradamus arrives,” Bash orders, cutting over the cross-talk, with a nod to Leith, who rises at once.

 

“Bash –” Diane tries again.

 

“Silence!”

 

Stunned, Diane obeys, as do they all.

 

It is the tensest quarter-hour of her life until Leith arrives with Nostradamus and a cat.

 

“If this contained poison, specifically the poison Claude claims it is, the poison that killed Catherine, how long would it take to show its effect?” Bash asks the seer impatiently.

 

“Human or feline, the victim would die at once, but the particular effects would take at least two hours to show.”

 

“Particular effects?”

 

“Blackening of the hands, the smell of violets – that was the effect on Catherine and on the late Lady Aylee.”

 

_Aylee, would you pass me that, please?_

_Mmm. It smells nice. What is it?_

_It’s a brew of lemon and honey._

_And a herb._

_It smells floral to me. It’s supposed to soothe and heal. You can have it if you’d like. It’s quite good._  
  


She cannot cry.

 

“The Lady Aylee?” Bash prompts.

 

“Some was stolen from me to use on Lady Aylee and I’ve never made it since. The only like left in existence would have been seized by Catherine along with everything else in the apothecary when I left court years ago. Likely she found a way to reproduce it, but no one without access to my notes could have. If, however, someone came into possession of all Catherine valued –”

 

“As Lady Diane did,” Leith interjects softly.

 

“Their new possessions would likely include Catherine’s store of poisons and my notes.”

 

Diane remains perfectly still and silent.

 

“Feed it to the cat,” Bash commands, pointing to Kenna’s goblet, still tight in her grasp. “Do it now, in front of us.”

 

Diane blanches.

 

Nostradamus takes the goblet from her and offers it to the cat until the creature has drained it. The cat begins to twitch nearly immediately. It is a most horrible death, not unlike Lady Walton’s, she thinks with a shudder. 

 

“Bring it back to us in two hours’ time. We will wait.”

 

“Wait?” Diane asks in disbelief.

 

“Wait,” Bash replies grimly. “And if anyone needs the privy, they will be escorted by my guards.”

 

Diane begins, “Bash, please, this is ridi –”

 

“Not another word, from any of you!”

 

Those who dare eat their cold dinner – tasted twice for poison – in absolute silence.

 

\---

 

“Your Majesty,” a servant announces after an eternity. “Nostradamus has returned to see you.”

 

“Show him in.”

 

Kenna cannot help but gag at the sight of the dead cat Nostradamus has returned to show them. Her stomach churns and she fears she will spew its contents all over the table. She will never be able to stand the scent of violets again.

 

“While human features differ from those of a feline, the effect on Catherine was nearly identical,” Nostradamus informs them.

 

Claude and Louis both nod.

 

“And on the late Lady Aylee.”

 

“Thank you,” Bash says tersely.

 

Nostradamus gathers up the cat and departs with a nod.  

 

“My God,” Bash gasps.

 

She turns to look at him and sees that he has lost all color in his face. 

 

“I just – Lady Walton looked the same as well. I saw her, before the autopsy.”

 

 _Lady Walton looked the same_.

 

“And she smelled of violets,” Bash continues raggedly. “I thought it was only a very strong perfume.”

 

“Who?” Diane asks uneasily.

 

“I will only ask you once, Mother.” It’s obvious that Bash is beginning to seriously doubt her. “Did you just attempt to poison the mother of my children, _your grandchildren_ , the woman I love?” He takes a deep shuddering breath.

 

“Of course not –”

 

Bash takes another deep breath. “Kenna, could you identify for us the servant who passed you your goblet?”

 

“Yes,” she replies shakily.

 

\---

 

The servants are summoned back, among them Gabrielle, who is near-shaking.

 

“None of you,” Bash looks at all of them seated at the table. “Is to say a word while I question the servants. “Did anyone give you anything to put in the Duchess of Anjou’s cup?” Bash interrogates her when Kenna points to her.

 

“Yes,” Gabrielle replies, so faintly they can scarce hear her.

 

“Who?”

 

“Your lady mother, Your Majesty.”

 

“Surely your half-sisters have put her up to this,” Diane interjects. Noticeably, she does not accuse Kenna herself.

 

“Be quiet, Mother,” Bash commands. “Did Queen Elisabeth or Queen Claude approach you?”

 

“I am the duchess’s maid, put in her household by your lady mother, and they asked that I agree to what your lady mother asked of me: to give the cup to the duchess, as she commanded, but to ensure that the duchess did not actually drink it if no one else intervened to prevent it. But Queen Claude did. They also asked that I tell the truth about what else she asked of me.”

 

“What else did she ask of you?” Bash demands raggedly.

 

“She asked that I spy on the duchess and report back to her.”

 

Bash has gone very pale. “And was your family threatened so that you would do as she asked?”

 

Gabrielle nods silently.

 

Bash turns sharply to Diane then. “Did you give this girl something to put in Kenna’s cup?”

 

Diane shakes her head. “Of course not.”

 

“Leith,” Bash says in that same awful, too-even voice from earlier. “Conduct a search of my mother’s rooms, at once.”

 

Leith nods, rises, and departs again without a word.

 

“Mother,” Bash continues in the same tone. “It was _you_ behind the attempt on Kenna’s life in Scotland, wasn’t it? Have you tried again now because you failed then _?_ ” he leans in, leaving barely a hairsbreadth between his mother’s face and his own. “ANSWER ME!” he shouts when Diane says nothing.

 

She, Claude, Condé, and Elisabeth all jump and Diane sobs, “It was Eduard. I didn’t ask for it –”

 

“Of course you _asked_ for it,” Bash accuses. “And you put him up to killing my nephew, too, didn’t you?”

 

“Of course not –”

 

“Guards!” Bash bellows.

 

Diane rises, panicked. “Bash, _please_ –”

 

“Don’t!” His voice drops to a deadly whisper. “You’re lucky that I don’t want to expose everyone in this room to violence, or else I would kill you where you stand.”

 

Kenna shivers at that, at the way Bash has turned on the woman who gave him life, who has done monstrous things, but all of them for his sake, at the reminder that Bash has the power of life and death over them all – and could now exercise it over the person who orchestrated his ascent.

 

“You! This is all your fault!” Diane screams at her. “You take everything from me – Henry; our son; now Eduard, the only man who put me first! My place here! Everything! And you!” Diane turns her anger upon Claude next. “She _actually_ killed your mother,” she says wildly to Elisabeth. “Not Antoine, not I, but Claude!”

 

“As if I would believe a word out of your lying, treacherous mouth,” Elisabeth snaps. “After you tried to manipulate –”

 

“And you, Your Majesty?” Diane interrupts, a half-mad light gleaming in her eyes as she looks at Louis. “If I told you she carried her lover’s child?”

 

That is precisely when the guards arrive.

 

Bash, who it seems was rendered mute with disbelief until that moment, orders them to take his mother to a cell in the dungeons and have her kept under lock and key and constantly guarded. “I will have your heads if she escapes on your watch,” he warns as they bear Diane away.

 

\---

 

She knows it was necessary that Diane betray herself in such a way – Bash would not have believed her if she went to him with her suspicions and no proof because Diane is his _mother_ – but she loathes herself for it when Diane is gone, when she sees the horror, disbelief, and pain in his eyes.

 

Bash leaves at once, before anyone can say a word to him, and she does not dare follow. What will she say, what will she –

 

“Is it true?” Louis demands raggedly of Claude when Bash is gone.

 

_No. Not like this._

 

“Would you really believe Diane when she has so defamed my sister?” Elisabeth interjects exasperatedly. Elisabeth knows that Diane asked Claude to kill Catherine, as Claude admitted that to them both, to corroborate that such requests were Diane’s _modus operandi_ and so it would come as no surprise to them when she admitted it in company, but not that she had obeyed.

 

“It’s hardly defamation when it’s true.”

 

He’s gone mad. _Mad!_

 

“How dare you speak of her so,” Elisabeth hisses. It seems that, even with past enmity between them, the Valois can be fiercely loyal to their own if provoked. “When she ought to have forsaken your marriage after everything your brother did. You still can, Claude; surely our brother will help free you from a husband who impugns your character like –”

 

Louis scoffs loudly enough to stop her.

 

When a too-long moment passes and Claude says nothing, Elisabeth’s eyes begin to fill with horror.

 

“She –” Claude’s voice breaks and she cannot meet Elisabeth’s eyes. “Mother – I told you that Mother tried to kill me, Elisabeth. And I thought she killed Francis. I was angry about what she’d tried to do to me, how she’d treated me all my life, and I was angry about Francis and I thought . . . if she could do that to her own children, she could do the same to Bash. Diane knew I was vulnerable after Jean died and – and –” She lets out a small sob.

 

Elisabeth stares at her older sister as though she hardly knows her and backs out of her own rooms as if she can no longer handle everything that’s happening around her.

 

\---

 

“Is it true?” Louis presses again. “Are you pregnant?”

 

It seems that Claude, though she makes a valiant effort, cannot suppress her sobs now that they’ve begun. “I – I was going to tell you –”

 

Leith bursts in then, flanked by two deputies whose arms are filled with boxes of what must be tonics and poisons and papers. “What’s happened?”

 

“You were going to lie to me, you mean,” Louis corrects, lip curling in disgust as he turns to face Leith.

 

“Leave us,” Leith commands the deputies, who depart wordlessly.

 

“To pass off his get as my heir.”

 

“No. No, I swear, it was after my mother –”

 

Louis turns on his heel, ignoring how Claude shouts his name.

 

“Please calm down,” Leith orders, wrapping strong arms around Claude that she sags into, before remembering Kenna and looking to her. “It’s not what it – I’m not –”

 

“I’ll talk to him,” Kenna interrupts. “I’ll make him see.”

 

Leith nods his thanks as he ushers Claude away.

 

Once she is left alone, the enormity of it all hits her and she falls to her knees, losing her breakfast and luncheon all over the beautiful Persian carpet that had been an especial gift from Greer and Lord Castleroy to the Queen of Spain upon her arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To explain something that was first brought up earlier in the story: the show is contradictory on how precisely Claude convinced Bash that they weren’t half-siblings before they slept together. In 2x7, Bash tells Claude that what happened between them “wouldn’t have happened at all if you hadn’t convinced me that Henry wasn't my real father.” But in 2x11, Bash says to Kenna that Claude “managed to briefly convince me that Henry wasn’t her father.” 
> 
> This story follows 2x7. As Bash says in Part 14, he believed Claude because he was so angry with Henry for ordering him to murder Marcus. Drunk as he was, it was hardly a stretch to think Henry would treat him no better than a hired assassin. Of course, in the morning light, he realizes that that Diane wouldn’t have remained in Henry’s favor nor would Henry have called him son all his life if he’d known he wasn’t Bash’s true father.
> 
> Finally, I would love to hear from you if you've been reading along all this while!


	31. (only a) man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She returns to her chambers to find Bash already there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After two months, an update! Life got in the way.

She returns to her chambers to find Bash already there.

 

“I’m so –”

 

“It wasn’t your fault,” she interrupts, not caring if he is apologizing for his mother's treachery or the damage he's done to her bedchamber. 

 

His lips begin to form a protest, but he only nods. Now that his deadly anger has burned itself out into pain, he is not a king, only a man whose burdens weigh so heavily on his shoulders he can hardly stand; she only holds him in her arms, because she knows not what to say, how to make anything better.

 

His sorrow is for the mother whose heart he never truly knew, who turned out to be a monster as bad as, or perhaps even worse than, they all believed Catherine to be; for how he might have lost Kenna forever if his mother had had her way; for the sister she manipulated into murdering her own mother. His sorrow is for the father and the brother who were driven mad and the way he despised them for the madness they could not control; for Mary, so weighed down with her guilt; for the child that died with Mary. His sorrow is for the years he’s lost with Kenna, with their children; for the way the crown he never wanted weighs ever heavier on his head, especially now that he truly understands what it has cost him, cost them all.

 

\---

 

She awakens in the middle of the night to hear Bash rising from her bed. “Bash?” she yawns.

 

“He’s dead. Right now, Chateauroux’s dead,” he declares grimly, walking out.

 

Middle of the night though it is, she decides to rise and join him, dressing silently but slowly because she does not want to call for a servant.

 

\---

 

Once she descends the steps to the dungeon, she pauses on the last step, fearing what awaits her at the bottom of the stairs.

 

It is Chateauroux stretched out on the rack.

 

She struggles to swallow the bile that rises in her throat at the sight.

 

“If you tell me the truth, I will spare your life.”

 

“Your Majesty, your mother loves you and she wanted nothing more than to see you receive your due. She – she was rather overcome with that desire. She did not think –”

 

“Nor did you?” Bash asks coldly.

 

“I love her; I could deny her nothing –”

 

Bash’s voice is tightly controlled. “So you admit to attempting to poison my wife at her behest?”

­­­­­­­

“I –”

 

“Twist,” Bash coldly commands the gaoler operating the rack.

 

Chateauroux groans, “Yes!”

 

“Tighter. And to paying an assassin to kill my nephew, also at her behest?”

 

“Yes! I’m sorry!”

 

“Release him.”

 

It is nearly impossible to keep her jaw from dropping, to stop herself from voicing a protest at the sight of a man who nearly killed her being allowed to walk free.

 

Chateauroux is helped to his feet by two guards, unsteady as a newborn foal on his weakened legs. “Your Majesty, Your Grace, I heartily beg your pardon, if not your forgiveness. But you must understand, with the love you bear one another, the things one does for the sake of one’s –”

 

Quick as lightning, Bash pulls out a dagger – she does not know from where – and stabs Chateauroux in the gut.

 

The guards who’d been holding the prisoner up release him in horror and he falls to the ground. It seems Bash struck with deadly precision; there is already blood bubbling up between Chateauroux’s lips.

 

“You said you would spare his life,” she says in disbelief as she watches the light go out of her would-be murderer’s eyes.

 

“I lied,” Bash replies shortly before turning to the guards. “Speak of this to no one and take him to my mother. He can keep her company in her cell.”

 

“He is . . . dead, Your Majesty,” one of the guard protests uncertainly, venturing a careful kick at Chateauroux’s prone figure. The lack of reaction and his glassy eyes confirm the guard’s assessment.

 

“I can see that.” There is a mad edge to his too-calm voice that puts her in mind of Henry and she is half-afraid of him then. “I want my mother to look upon his corpse before she hangs for her crimes.”

 

“Bash, that is unwise,” she interrupts with uncharacteristic timidity.

 

“Why?”

 

“Leave us, please,” she asks the guards and the gaoler, who don’t move.

 

“Obey her as you would me,” Bash tells them and then the guards make to lift Chateauroux’s body.

 

“Leave him, too,” she commands.

 

The guards and gaoler disperse at once, leaving Chateauroux at their feet.

 

“I teased you once, about his resemblance to your father. Do you remember? He’s known to be – was known to have been –” she corrects uneasily. “Your mother’s lover. People may wonder if you’ve killed them both to protect a secret you don’t actually have.” Unless he means to charge Diane publicly with her crimes. She drops her voice into an even lower whisper. “Claude claimed he was your true father when she got you into bed, didn’t she?”

 

He nods. “But it was a lie, of course. Henry could forgive my mother nearly anything, but he would never have forgiven her trying to pass off another man’s child as his son. It would have been too much for his pride to take and he would’ve sent us away. Besides, I’ve a birthmark –”

 

She knows it well, but she shakes her head. “You know the suspicion alone would be enough to endanger you, endanger all of us. Better to dispose of the body without fanfare. Order the guards to tell no tales, and even if they do, it will be only of your anger at his confession. But they won’t, because –”

 

“They’ve seen what I’m capable of,” he finishes grimly, storming away.

 

Her stomach sinks, knowing where he is headed, but still she follows.

 

\---

 

Bash shakes his head in disbelief when they stand before Diane’s cell. “You told me – when I learned of my nephew’s death, you told me not to mourn, because he was _a threat to me_ , that if he lived, what was mine by rights could have been seized from me in his name. My God, and still I never suspected you – how stupid –” Bash inhales, the breath nearly a gasp. “Tell me that we’re wrong, Mother. Say it isn’t true, that none of it is true –”

 

“I would like to say that. I would –”

 

“You – how could you?” Kenna echoes Bash’s sentiments – still, after living with her suspicions, half-unable to believe it. “He was a child!”

“A child whose every breath threatened my son, _my_ child. Catherine and Narcisse were plotting to supplant Bash, to put that boy ahead of him. I could not allow it, certainly not with the troubles he was having in Scotland. How far would _you_ go for your children, both of you? It’s laughable that you – you of all people – dare to reproach me, Kenna. You whose children’s future has been secured by my actions, you who my blood-soaked hands have given the chance to have what I myself was never given: a crown!”

 

“A crown you’ve admitted you didn’t mean for me to have.”

 

“I told you how Catherine wanted me to poison you once. I didn’t then. But how I regretted it when I heard that Henry forced my son to marry you. I’ve always regretted it. When your marriage was annulled, my only regret was for my granddaughter, but if you’d died before the marriage had to be annulled, as I’d planned, she would’ve been unaffected.”

 

“Except for losing her mother. Not to mention my son would have died in my womb!”

 

Diane hisses, “ _My_ son deserves better than Henry’s leavings, leavings for which he meant to turn down legitimization, a dukedom, a _crown_ – everything I ever wanted for him, everything Henry never gave him.”

 

“A crown soaked in blood, including yours, soon enough!” Bash interrupts furiously. “I cannot believe you. You disgust me.”

 

“I am your _mother_! I did this for _you_! Where is your forgiveness?”

 

“You didn’t do any of it for me, not really, did you? You did it for yourself, to satisfy your own ambitions, to wield power through me.”

 

She doesn’t contradict him, because she knows Diane did have her own ambitions, but she also knows what she would do for her own children and she knows Diane must not have done it all _only_ for herself. And yet . . .

 

What would killing her now have achieved? Bash has everything now: he holds the throne in a kingdom that’s remarkably stable – in large part thanks to the unlikely alliances he’s made and truces he’s agreed to – after everything that’s happened. It would only have made him unhappy and left their children motherless. That’s the part she’ll never fully understand and that part she’ll ascribe to ambition, to Diane’s desire to have an easily controlled consort at her son’s side so she could be the true power behind the throne.

 

“You absolved Kenna for _her_ ambition, when she was your father's mistress. Have you forgotten that?”

 

_You! This is all your fault! You take everything from me – Henry; our son; Eduard, the only man who put me first! My place here! Everything!_

And to jealousy.

 

“How can you even compare Kenna’s affair to what you’ve done? She was young and naive. She was scared. You had a little boy murdered in cold blood and you attempted to kill _her_ multiple times!”

 

“Kenna, young and naive? That doesn't describe the girl who told Catherine I was in Rome trying to get you legitimized.”

Her heart is like to pound out of her chest at the old secret brought back to haunt her.

 

“What are you talking about? Kenna would never do that.”

 

“But she did! Kenna knew that exposing my plan could get us both killed, but she was determined to strike at her rival for Henry. She wanted me gone enough not to care!”

 

She has promised herself to give Bash the honesty she demanded of him, but she cannot risk bringing the fury Diane’s elicited upon her own head instead.

 

Only Catherine and Diane knew and Catherine is dead. Diane will be soon enough. Bash will believe her over his mother, she thinks desperately. And it would do none of them any good to tell him the truth.

 

“Even if she had, _it_ _wouldn’t matter_!” Bash shouts over Diane. “I hope you enjoy Catherine’s company in hell, Mother. Oh, and one more thing – guards! Bring him in,” he orders, directly countermanding Kenna’s advice, and she must once again choke back the bile that rises in her throat.

 

\---

 

She follows after Bash as he stalks away, running until she is front of him and blocks his path. “Bash –”

 

“Kenna, please – I can’t, not now –” There is a pain and helplessness under the anger that breaks her heart.

 

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” _Sorry for so many things . . ._ “I –”

 

“ _Please_ don’t,” he insists. “I’d like to be alone.”

 

“All right,” she says unwillingly. “Then I will go to Louis.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I promised Claude I would make him listen.”

 

“Make him –?”

 

“What your mother said about her being pregnant, it’s true. But there’s been a misunderstanding and I promised I’d make him listen.”

 

“You’re incredible,” he says, giving her a long look before walking away. 

 

\---

 

But before she can get to Louis, she is waylaid by Lord Narcisse. “I heard Diane was thrown in the dungeon last night at the king’s command.”

 

She decides not to bother lying as they fall into step together. “How?”

 

“I have my sources. On what charges?”

 

“She hasn’t been charged and none of this is public, so hold your tongue, but everything I suspected – attempting to poison me, ordering Jean’s murder. It was all Chateauroux directly behind it, but he was doing her bidding.”

 

“I see. And how did he take it? Sebastian?”

 

“He’s shocked. Furious. Pained. He said he’ll see her dead for it all, but –”

 

“Good.”

 

A moment’s hesitation before she turns her head and locks eyes with Narcisse. “But I don’t know how he’ll bear it when the time comes. I can’t spare him living with the knowledge of everything she’s done, but I wish I could spare him that much.”

 

“Would that you could,” he replies softly.

 

She puts a hand on his arm as he’s about to walk away. “Tell Lola –”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Tell her I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

“I will.”

 

\---

 

She storms into the king of Navarre’s suite of rooms, realizing, to her great concern, that the reason no one blocked her way is that all the servants are too busy packing everything in sight.

 

Louis glares fiercely at her as soon as he notices her, waving the servants out before hurling accusations. “You told me to get her pregnant because you knew she already was!”

 

She can’t deny it.

 

“I’m such a fool and you all have probably had such a laugh at my expense. _He saved me!_ ” He exclaims in a high, breathy falsetto that must be a mockery of Claude. “I should have known,” he says in his usual voice, only so bitter she can hardly stand it.

 

“It’s yours! She told me so herself, before. It’s just that –”

 

He scoffs. “I won’t credit her lies, or you repeating them. I’m not a fool anymore. I wash my hands of her. Let all of Europe know her for a whore.”

 

Realizing she can’t get through to him, she decides on a mad, wild gamble. “If you abandon her, I will tell all and sundry that _you_ killed Antoine,” she says, voice pitched low his ears only.

 

“Out!” he calls to the servants, who disappear at once.

 

“And who will they believe,” she continues. “The next queen of France or the younger brother who was his heir and stood to gain everything from his death?”

 

“ _I_ will tell all and sundry the truth: that _you_ did it.”

 

“I will tell the truth about Francis.”

 

“I will say that the king of France slept with my wife, his own sister. The same sister who killed her own mother. The same sister who is a shameless slut, trying to pass another man’s child off as the heir to her husband’s throne. I daresay the pope would not be so accommodating to any of you then, would he?”

 

Her eyes widen in horror. “This is madness.”

 

“Not madness. Mutually assured destruction.”

 

She sighs in defeat. “You cannot refuse the child now, then change your mind and claim it later.”

 

“I never will,” he says grimly. “This is for Claude,” he adds, handing her an envelope. “Read it, or don’t, I don’t particularly care. Only see to it that she receives it and reads it. Now leave me be.”

 

\---

 

By the time she gets to Lola, Narcisse has broken the full truth of Jean’s death to her and Greer is already there.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she begins uselessly.

 

Lola’s tone is too even. “Thank you. Stéphane told me.”

 

“I wish there was something I could do –”

 

“You can’t give me what I want,” Lola interrupts. It seems Lola has had enough time with the truth that she has buried her pain beneath seething fury, because fury is what bursts forth then. “I want Diane dead. I want her head. I want her to bleed and burn and _hurt_. I cannot do to her what she did to me, because it is treason and because he’s done nothing to deserve it, but, oh, if I could punish her!”

 

Kenna’s response of _I would feel the same way_ undoes her friend and her well of pain bubbles up again, expressed in sobs that wrack her body, sobs that Kenna and Greer hold her through until she can cry no more.


	32. son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please don’t wear that ring again,” Bash asks that night when she opens the secret door to her bedchamber for him. He is dressed for bed and she would tease him for his presumptuousness to get his mind off things if she did not sense the seriousness of the moment.
> 
> “This ring . . . it was your grandmother’s, not your mother’s,” she says, confused.
> 
> “But my mother gave it to me.”

“Please don’t wear that ring again,” Bash asks that night when she opens the secret door to her bedchamber for him. He is dressed for bed and she would tease him for his presumptuousness to get his mind off things if she did not sense the seriousness of the moment.

 

Her day was not what she expected. It seems the guards were sufficiently intimidated by Bash’s actions in the dungeon that they have kept their mouths shut and that Elisabeth’s servants are discreet beyond compare, so she had to make no explanations to her daughter. It is the king of Navarre’s abrupt departure without his queen that has tongues wagging. They wonder why she did not leave with him to be at his side as he assumes power in Navarre, despite how unconventional their marriage has always been.

 

“This ring . . . it was your grandmother’s, not your mother’s,” she says, confused.

 

“But my mother gave it to me.”

 

“If it matters so much to you, I won’t wear it anymore,” she agrees. “I’ll put it away,” she says, doing just that, putting it all the way at the back of a drawer. “But I couldn’t bear to throw it away.”

 

“All right,” he sighs, sitting down.

 

Once she sits down beside him, he lays back, pulling her down against him. She curls herself around him like a cat, sensing he needs her close tonight. He runs his fingers through her hair again and again, but the soothing motion – one she suspects is also an attempt to soothe himself – does not calm her racing thoughts.

 

She knows that Bash, stoic though he is now, must mourn the mother he thought he knew as surely as though she were already dead. And for all that Bash railed at Diane, she is not entirely certain that he could bear formally ordering her execution. Once doing so, he could not shirk the duty of attending and she is certain that whatever his loathing for his mother’s actions, he could not bear _that_.

 

Nevertheless, she does finally fall asleep.

 

\---

 

She awakens to Bash's gaze upon her, loving, melancholy, and a million other things she cannot describe. For some reason, she decides then that she must give him her promised honesty.

 

She turns her head, steeling herself for it so tensely that Bash murmurs, “What’s the matter?”

 

She does not answer, her heart pounding so hard she can barely hear herself think as she begins to broach the subject she fears will destroy them anew. “I have to – Bash, what your mother said yesterday –”

 

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he asks, voice tightly controlled.

 

 _I promised him honesty_ , she reminds herself. She hopes he does not give her cause to regret this. She hopes he meant what he said to Diane, that it would not matter if she had. She looks up at him, hand on his chest to steady herself. “Yes. Please don’t be angry. I’m sorry. I –”

  
He interrupts, voice unexpectedly soft. “We’ve lost too much time together for me to waste any more of it in anger and recriminations over things past.” He pulls her back down against him.

 

Even as her fear seeps away, her guilt remains. “I’m still sorry. I was scared of what would become of me. I heard things –”

 

“I saw what became of Henry’s other lovers when he returned to my mother. Not all of them were given generous dowries and made brilliant matches. Of course, none of the others were made to marry me at sword point either,” he finishes self-deprecatingly.

 

“He might’ve meant it to hurt us, but it was the best thing he ever did for me,” she says softly.

 

“And me.” He kisses her temple. “Will you stay here with me a while longer, before we have to face the rest of the world?”

 

 _We._ “Of course.” She’ll be at his side to face it, together.

 

\---

 

Though she hates to do it, she must leave Bash for a brief time to say her goodbyes to Lola, who is leaving court, perhaps for good.

 

“I know I keep saying it and that it’s useless and that nothing can give you Jean back, but I am sorry,” she says apologetically to Lola as she departs with Lord Narcisse.

 

“But you gave me something,” Lola says solemnly. “I don’t have to wonder anymore. Thank you for that.” She kisses Kenna’s cheek softly. “Give Tara and Charlie my love.”

 

“I will. Be well, Lola. I love you,” she says, gathering her into a fierce hug.

 

Tears gather in Lola’s eyes as they pull apart. “I love you, too. You will always be the sister of my heart, you and Greer.”

 

“And you ours.”

 

“Goodbye,” Lord Narcisse murmurs as he hands Lola into their carriage. “And thank you.”

 

“Goodbye. Take care of her.”

 

“I will.”

 

She hesitates, but then she decides to speak further. “If and when she is ever ready to return to court, I will do my best to see to it that there is a place waiting for you on the privy council. I cannot promise anything, but –”

 

“I understand, Your Grace.”

 

“Safe travels.”

 

Narcisse nods as he climbs into the carriage.

 

She waves them off until they are naught but a tiny speck on the darkening horizon.

 

\---

 

When finally left alone, she cannot help herself.

 

Louis’s message is brief and makes painfully clear that Claude is not welcome in Navarre or in her husband’s life, nor is her child.

_What is there to be done now?_

 

She shakes herself and decides Bash must see it before Claude does. They have to help her. “Take this to the king at once. Do not read it,” she commands the nearest servant.

 

Perhaps Claude’s situation is a way to save Bash from his own despair. He has always liked to play the hero and Claude may be more in need of that now than most.

 

But she mustn’t make it too difficult for him.

 

\---

 

Scarcely an hour later, Bash meets her to walk to the rooms prepared for Claude after their awful supper, when she was barred from the rooms shared with her husband.

 

“What will you do?” she whispers as they walk down the corridors together.

 

“I’ve already begun. I sent a messenger immediately after him and Castleroy as my envoy to follow.”

 

“Saying what, precisely?”

 

“Threatening war if he follows through with divorcing my sister.”

 

“Bash!”

 

“What else was I to do?”

 

He and Andrew are more alike than either of them would like to admit.

 

“Bash, I – I panicked, when I saw he was leaving. I threatened him and he threatened me in return.”

 

“What sorts of threats?”

 

“To reveal my secrets . . . yours . . . Claude’s.”

 

He understands at once, face darkening.

 

“Still . . . I know he’s angry, but I find it hard to believe that he can behave so cold-bloodedly,” she says quietly. “Perhaps given some time –”

 

“He’s a Bourbon,” Bash snaps.

 

“Even if he doubts Claude, he is taking a tremendous risk. He’ll be bastardizing a legitimate child – his _only_ child, legitimate or otherwise.” She shakes her head.

 

He sighs as they come to Claude’s door.

 

\---

 

Bash’s words are simple and even and utterly sincere and she wonders at his self-possession after everything that’s transpired. “I want to help you. You are my sister, my only family besides Kenna and our children –”

 

Claude sniffs. “What of Elisabeth?”

“My only family besides Kenna, our children, and Elisabeth,” he amends.

 

Diane, she knows, is dead to him now.

 

“All I ask is that you tell me the truth. Is there anything else you want to tell me? Tell us?”

 

“What you already know is the truth,” Claude says quietly. “Normally I might have doubts,” she admits, flushing. “But I was at Chenonceau after I left court and . . .  nothing happened there. Whatever Louis believes, Leith is only my friend. That’s the truth.”

 

“And I will shove your husband’s face in it,” Bash promises with cool ferocity before rising from his seat beside the bed.

 

\---

 

“I know things are . . . impossibly difficult right now,” she says as they part ways – he to his office, where he’ll most likely pick at supper on a tray, and she to see to the children, who must feel quite abandoned. “But I am here. Remember always that I’m here.”

 

“I know,” he says quietly.

 

\---

 

That night, she awaits Bash in his bedchamber, rising from the bed when he walks in and wordlessly embracing him.

 

He closes his eyes and holds onto her for a long moment. “You always know what I need.”

 

“I love you; I’m supposed to,” she says, softly stroking his face and wishing she could wipe the tension away from his furrowed brow. So much happened today that she had no chance to speak to him about Diane. She can’t truly imagine what he is going through. “So –”

 

“I don’t want to talk about my mother,” he interrupts, as if reading her mind.

 

She sighs and sits down heavily on the bed. “What about Claude?”

 

“Not a much happier topic, but at least she hasn’t killed anyone.”

 

“Besides Catherine.”

 

Bash’s eyes widen.

 

She claps a hand to her mouth in horrified disbelief. Not only was it an utterly inappropriate response, but it is also the first time one of the many secrets she keeps has escaped her unintentionally. Claude will never trust her again and –

 

“It seems we Valois are destined to be patricides and matricides all – Francis, Claude, me soon enough,” Bash says darkly.

 

Her heart clenches to hear it. “Bash, please, she’ll never trust me again if she knows I – Catherine tried to poison her,” she adds desperately, shifting tactics. “It’s true. Ask Leith, Leith knows! He saved her from the attempt. Catherine was likely being driven mad by the same Bible that –”

 

“Kenna, please.” He rests a hand over hers. “I didn’t judge Francis; you know I killed a man to cover up what he did. I can hardly judge Claude her doings if Catherine threatened her life and truthfully, I’ve suspected as much after . . . after my mother accused her, since she did turn out to be pregnant.”

 

“Thank God,” she sighs in relief. “She needs our help.”

 

“And I won’t deny her it, I swear, but there’s not much we can do until Castleroy –”

 

She has a different idea to fix Claude’s situation. “If Claude consents, will you let Louis do what he will – help even – and give Leith a duchy so Claude can marry him instead and have done with it all?”

 

Bash’s eyes widen. “I beg your pardon?”

\---

Although it is quite late, she finds her way to the commander’s quarters in the south keep, a place Bash spoke of where she never followed, and asks the guards milling about where the king’s deputy is.

 

She knocks on the door one of the younger guards leads her to.

 

“Come in.”

 

She hesitates in the doorway once she opens it. Leith looks to be rather absorbed in his work, not even bothering to look up.

 

“Well then? I’m busy,” he snaps impatiently, eyes on the documents littering his desk.

                                                                                     

“I’m sorry –

 

He looks up then. “Oh, it’s you.” He shakes his head and rises. “I’m sorry, please sit.” He doesn’t sit back down until she does. “It’s just that there are . . . certain matters to deal with, with Chateauroux and Lady Diane –”

 

Now is hardly the time for her question, but she knows what it is to be a woman in this world. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known, but I did wish to speak to you about something important.”

 

“What about?”

 

“Claude. I went after Louis and he . . . refused to claim the child. He left a message that made it very clear that he means to wash his hands of her. And he told me so.”

 

Leith scoffs. “I can’t believe him.”

 

“Nor can I.” She sighs. “But you must admit it did look bad.”

 

“It did, but Claude – Claude has hardly ever been the most chaste of women, yet I’ve never known her to be a liar.”

 

If anything, Claude is often overly honest. “I agree, but we women will often do anything, no matter how uncharacteristic, for our children.”

 

Leith nods. “She’ll be a good mother.”

 

She finds herself agreeing. “I think so, too. But a mother alone –”

 

“Do you truly think he won’t reconsider?”

 

“I don’t know. Bash has sent Lord Castleroy after him as an envoy, with a threat of war. But I also don’t know that we should leave Claude’s fate – and the child’s – to be decided by his whims.”

 

Leith is silent for some time and she begins to doubt whether he will go along with her plan. She is about to excuse herself with whatever thing first comes out of her mouth when he finally speaks.

 

“I am no prince or king, but I would claim her child as my own if Louis –” Leith’s voice fills with derision at the mention of the new king of Navarre – “chooses not to. If it were acceptable to her.”

 

“When I thought you _were_ the father of her child,” she admits, “I thought the annulment of their marriage could be secured and Bash could grant you a duchy and it would be enough. A duke for a princess and legitimacy for the child. Would you truly be willing, under those conditions?”

 

Leith hesitates not a moment. “Yes. With or without a duchy, but it would certainly make it less of a step down for her.”

 

 _Do you love her?_ she nearly asks. But she fears the answer too much to voice the question.

 

**\---**

 

“I’ve spoken with Leith,” she explains. “He would be willing to claim the child if it is acceptable to Claude. Let me speak to her.”

 

“Fine,” Bash sighs. “It galls me to think of Louis getting his way this way, but if they agree to your plan, I’ll do everything possible to make it happen.”

 

“Well, we’ve resolved something today,” she says, trying to inject some brightness into her tone.

 

From Bash’s reaction, it doesn’t seem to work very well. 

 

“Lie down with me,” she says. “We’ve had a very long day.”

 

Without another word, he obeys.

 

\---

 

As they were on the day after Antoine’s death, they are woken far too early by Leith the following morning.

 

“Your Majesty,” Leith begins with a respectful murmur. “I have some rather . . . unfortunate news for you. Should I wait outside until –”

 

“Give me a moment, I’ll be right out.”

 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Leith murmurs. She suspects he is hiding behind his courtesies, not knowing what else to do in the face of the news he bears.

 

Bash means to see to the situation alone, but she has a feeling he will need her and follows him out into the sitting room. She looks everywhere but at Bash and Leith, eyes settling on her own portrait over the fireplace until Leith’s voice brings her back.

 

“My Lady the King’s Mother is . . . is . . .” Leith swallows uncomfortably.

 

“Is what?” Bash demands, impatience obvious.


	33. orphan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the barest flinch, Bash’s face becomes an impassive mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exactly a month later!

“Dead, Your Majesty. She was found dead in her cell at first light,” Leith finishes softly.

 

After the barest flinch, Bash’s face becomes an impassive mask. “How did she die?”

 

“She should be examined by Nostradamus before we can be sure, but we believe the cause was . . . strangulation,” Leith finally manages. “From the marks on her neck.”

 

“Who was her last visitor?” Bash demands. “Could anyone else have gotten access to her cell?”

 

“I don’t know. I –”

 

“Find out!” Bash shouts.

 

“Yes, Your Majesty. I – I –”

 

“Leith,” she interrupts. “Is it common knowledge that Diane was imprisoned?”

 

“No,” he says at once.

 

“Then put about word that she died in her sleep – likely falling victim to her broken heart at the discovery that her beloved Chateauroux was implicated in Antoine’s plot to murder Jean. Even for those who know she was imprisoned, it is enough.”

 

Bash takes a deep breath and nods.

 

“I know she did terrible things, but . . . she was your mother, so you have my condolences,” Leith murmurs as he backs out of the room with a hasty bow.

 

“I – I can’t believe it,” Bash says tightly, turning to her. “I – I don’t know how to feel.”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

When he sits, she sits beside him, pulls him down so he can rest his head in her lap, strokes his hair soothingly as though he were one of their children, because she doesn’t know what else she can do for him.

 

\---

 

Somehow, she manages to convince Bash to return to bed. She will make his excuses with the children for breakfast and for Tara’s usual riding lesson. And of course Tara will need to be told the public explanation of Diane’s death, with something simpler for Charlie.

 

“Darling, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” she asks, picking unenthusiastically at an apple tart after Charlie has been taken off for his nap. “I know you probably don’t remember very well when Grandfather Livingston passed away, but –”

 

“Not really, except you said he went to heaven.”

 

_I hope you enjoy Catherine’s company in hell, Mother._

 

“Yes. Well, last night . . . your grandmother – your grandmother passed away.”

 

Tara’s eyes widen with tears.

 

Now her children have no living grandparents, she realizes. “Oh, come here, darling.” She pulls Tara onto her lap. “We’re not sure exactly, but she passed away in her sleep. I think . . . She loved Lord Chateauroux so very much, but he did terrible things and it broke her heart.”

 

“What terrible things?”

 

 _Too terrible for any child’s ears. Certainly for a child of your years._ But she says it anyway, because people can’t hold their tongues and she would rather Tara hears this from her than that she overhears some gossiping courtier or servant. “He was the one who had your cousin Jean killed.”

 

“Poor Jean. Poor Grandmother.” Tara curls into her and begins to cry.

 

She holds her daughter until she falls asleep and carries her to bed. She sits beside Tara until she’s certain Tara won’t stir for a long while and rises to do what she must.

 

\---

 

“Claude,” she greets hesitantly as she walks into the bedchamber.

 

“Yes?” Claude asks hoarsely. “Leith came and told me about Diane. The official story. I know that wasn’t really what happened, but he wouldn’t tell me what really did.”

 

It seems Leith is no less dutiful and loyal to Bash than Bash once was to Francis.

 

“We asked him to.”

 

“Commanded.”

 

“Bash issues commands; I cannot. I’m not queen yet.”

 

“Yet?” Claude echoes.

 

“I – now’s hardly the time, Claude, but you know your brother means to marry me. I’ve needed time –”

 

“But you’ve come around to it.”

 

She nods.

 

“Good. Finally, something good.” Claude sighs. “But what happened to Diane?”

 

“She was strangled, most likely,” Kenna admits.

 

“By who? Was it – was it you?”

 

“No!”

 

Claude looks skeptical.

 

“Truly it wasn’t. They’re investigating now.”

 

“I’m sorry for Bash, but I’m _so glad_ she’s dead. I only wish she’d suffered more after everything she did.” Claude looks away.

 

“You’re not the only one. But that wasn’t what I was here about.”

 

“Then what are you here about?”

 

“Bash and I, we’ve a way to fix things for you if you agree. Before, when I thought –”

 

“When you thought it was Leith,” Claude finishes. “Like Diane said and –” Claude shakes her head at the painful memory. “Didn’t you?”

 

She nods.

 

“You thought wrong. You all did.” Claude nearly smiles then, but it is a travesty.

 

“I know we did. But it helped me come up with a solution. We can quickly secure an annulment so you can marry and Bash would give him a duchy, to raise his status. Bash has agreed to do his part –”

 

“And Leith would never say no. A duchy is no small inducement and no one says no to the king, least of all his deputy.”

 

“I spoke to him and he offered, before I even mentioned the possibility of a duchy,” Kenna continues desperately, fearing the dullness in Claude’s voice. “Even after that, he said he would claim your child with or without it; his only concern was that marriage to him would be a step down for you. He cares for you; it’s obvious he does not want to see you shamed or your child unprotected. I truly think the only reason he didn’t offer even before we spoke was fear of seeming presumptuous to you. I wouldn’t force Leith into anything, I swear. Nor would Bash.”

 

“I suppose it’s a good thing that you thought what you did, because now my problem can be solved quickly,” Claude says at long last.

 

There is something in Claude’s voice that makes her question her own machinations. “Are you sure you want to do this? Boy or girl, your child would have a right to the throne of Navarre after Louis and it will lose that if Leith claims it as his own.”

 

“It doesn’t matter. My parents weren’t like you and Bash and the privileges of being a princess were never worth the price I’ve paid for them. I don’t want the same for my child. If Leith claims it, it cannot be Louis’s and certainly not Navarre’s,” she finishes determinedly, chin set stubbornly in a manner that is entirely too familiar.

 

“Maybe this is for the best,” she agrees, deciding to give away a secret she hopes will help Claude overcome the pain of her husband’s abandonment. A secret she is near-certain he never shared with Claude.

 

_You know, she thought I should seek an annulment because of what Antoine did to our family._

 

_But – Would you want one? I mean –_

 

_No, not now. And it’s not as if Louis had any part in it._

 

If Claude hates him, she will get over this all that much faster. And now that she knows Catherine actually did attempt to murder Claude, she is less concerned that learning the truth will make Claude feel guilty. “After all, would you really want to live with your brother’s murderer?”

 

“My brother’s –”

 

“Louis did it, he and Mary. They were the ones who killed Francis, not Catherine as everyone’s always suspected.”

 

“Nor Antoine,” Claude adds, but then she gasps, as if truly understanding the import of her words, a hand to her mouth. “No. I can’t believe . . .”

 

“Claude, he told me so himself –”

 

“I – no, yes I can,” she corrects herself angrily. “Mary has always been everything to him. Of course he would kill my brother for her; he conspired to kill his own brother for her.”

 

So Louis told her the truth of that, explicitly, at least? Perhaps it was another night like the one after Claude killed Catherine.

 

Claude tilts her chin again. “Of course.”

 

“I think you should go away, perhaps to Chenonceau, while we sort things out.”

 

Claude nods. “I will. I’ll tell the servants to start packing my things right away. Thank you.”

 

“Don’t thank me. You’re family,” she says, rising to depart.

 

But she stands still when Claude speaks again. “I would never have asked this of Leith, you know; it wouldn’t have been fair. I still don’t know that it’s fair. But if he’s offered and he truly means it, if he wasn’t pressured by you or by Bash or anyone else. . . I’ll take it, and I’ll be grateful forever.”

 

She squeezes Claude’s hand. “He means it, I could tell. From the bottom of his heart.” And she truly does mean that.

 

Though it’s been forever since he was merely her personal guard assigned by Catherine, though she carries another man’s – her husband’s – child, though she’s taken any number of lovers over the years, she knows that Leith has been the only constant in Claude’s life, ever present and ever protective. It’s love and it’s love of the most selfless sort, love given freely without demands and without hope of reciprocation.

 

She doesn’t know how she didn’t see it sooner.

 

“He’s better than I deserve. Better than any woman deserves, really. Too good for this terrible world.”

 

They will find some prelate who will post-date Claude’s marriage to Leith once her annulment comes through and she will remain away from court with her child long enough that people do not question whether her new husband is its father.

 

In the midst of all this turmoil it will be one thing come right, she tells herself, sideways though they’ve come at it.

 

\---

 

There is one more thing Kenna wishes to do for Claude, one more thing that will make her feel as though she can someday right the scales of her life and Elisabeth’s arrival in her rooms upon learning of Diane’s death gives her the opportunity.

 

She brings the subject to Claude after they’ve exhausted discussion of Diane’s death – there is no point in keeping the truth from Elisabeth either – and how Bash is taking it. “Elisabeth, forgive Claude, please.”

 

Elisabeth sits before her stone-faced and silent. 

 

“I cannot imagine how you must feel, but . . . you know everything that happened, how Catherine attempted to poison her, how everyone believed Catherine was the one to poison Francis because of his madness. And then Diane filled her with fears that Catherine would do the same to Bash, the only family left to her besides you and – well, until recently, you weren’t very close. But you’ve opened your hearts to each other now. Don’t let Diane drive you apart,” she pleads, framing it as the Valois sisters against a common enemy, dead though she now is. “I think your forgiveness, your sisterly understanding, your _love_ would do her a world of good right now. She has even more need of it now, with Louis’s abandonment of her and their child –”

 

Something in Elisabeth’s eyes changes then. “Is that why she didn’t wish to leave him, even after what Antoine did? Even if Antoine didn’t even do all of it? But why would he have confessed to –”

 

“I don’t know, though he and Diane did have some interests in common, so perhaps – But now’s hardly the time,” she interjects, trying to keep the anxiety from her voice. “What matters is that Claude needs you. Find it in your heart to stand by her.”

 

Finally, Elisabeth nods.

 

\---

 

“Poor Bash,” Greer sighs after Kenna is done. “I doubt he’ll want to talk to anyone yet, so for now, please tell him how sorry I am.”

 

Her brothers and even Nanny Moira have also expressed similar sentiments.

 

“I will.” She had called for Greer after Elisabeth left and Greer had come at once. While she cannot tell Greer everything, she needed _someone_ to talk to about what she could or she would surely explode.

 

“And poor Claude.”

 

“Thank God Leith is willing to do what can be done. He truly does care for her.”

 

“Yes, thank God for that.” Greer’s face takes on a faraway look. “Did I ever tell you . . . years ago, we spoke after that ship full of veterans from Calais exploded. I was so relieved to see him alive, but still I couldn’t choose him, of course. He was so hurt; he told me to remember that as the moment that I threw my happiness away when I was alone and miserable and that he would remember me as the woman who told him he wasn’t enough. He said he would rise and rise and rise until he was rich and powerful, but that he would never be mine again.” Greer smiles ruefully. “It seems it’s all come true, except for the part where I’m alone and miserable, and I’m glad of it all.”  

 

“Perhaps now he can be as happy as you are with Lord Castleroy. Isn’t that a lovely thought?”

 

“I do hope Claude will make him happy in time, and he her.” Greer lifts her glass.

 

Kenna lifts her own to clink against it. She will have to take her triumphs where she may.

 

\---

 

“I’ve brought the captain of the prison guard,” she hears Leith say as she enters Bash’s office, answering the message that came for her from Leith to meet there. They do not bother to even acknowledge her, too caught up in what will be said next.

 

“Who was my mother’s last visitor?”

 

“I – Sire, I do not –”

 

“Were you bribed or threatened to look the other way? To _lie_ to me, your king?” Bash presses.

 

The guard hesitates and looks at Leith before speaking. “Both, Your Majesty,” he admits uneasily.

 

“Whatever threats were made, I guarantee my own will be worse and whatever bribes were offered, I will double. Who was my mother’s last known visitor?” When the guard still does not speak, Bash demands what curbs his tongue.

 

“I fear the threats already made more than I want any bribe.”

 

“You will be under my protection if you answer truthfully. Who was my mother’s last known visitor?” Bash asks again.

 

“Lady – Lady Lola, Your Majesty.”

 

Not Narcisse?

 

“You’re free to go.”

 

The guard bows and departs hastily.

 

“And you, Leith. Please see to it that . . . that my mother’s body is transported to the family plot in Poitou.”

 

Leith nods and departs.

 

With no mourning, no funeral, nothing . . . she is certain every tongue at court will wag, but it matters not now. There are so many more important things to think of.

 

Bash turns to her then. “I can’t even blame her. I didn’t tell you then, but not wanting you to despise yourself as I did myself wasn’t the only reason I didn’t wish for you to take Antoine’s punishment into your own hands. I hate to say I would’ve relished it, killing the man who did us all so much harm.” He shakes his head. “I cannot blame Lola at all.” He sits down heavily at his desk, head in his hands.

 

She can feel his shoulders shaking as she leans over him, chest to back, hoping to suffuse him with her love and warmth when he needs it most.


	34. bride-to-be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They try their very hardest to put the painful recent events out of their minds.

They try their very hardest to put the painful recent events out of their minds.

“I hope it won’t be quite so long before we next see each other,” Elisabeth says as they begin their goodbyes, the words half a question. “Perhaps, some time after you . . . are settled, you can come visit me in Spain. Meet my daughters. I think you’d enjoy it.”

 

“I think I would, too,” Claude says softly.

 

“And you know we’ll welcome you here at court with open arms when you’re ready to return,” Kenna tells her.

 

Bash only nods in agreement. “Take care of yourself, Claude. And write. Or else Kenna will worry.”

 

“I’m sure you won’t.”

 

“I never do.”

 

The three of them – she, Claude, and even Elisabeth – roll their eyes in near-perfect sync.

 

“Even I can tell you worry, Sebastian,” Elisabeth laughs. “I suppose it comes from being the eldest. They’re so small, yet Isabella already fusses over Catherine dreadfully.”

 

“My older brother is just the same.”

 

“Oh, he certainly is,” Bash agrees. “But really, Claude, you’re like Kenna – you don’t need looking after, not really.”

 

Claude’s eyes shine suspiciously bright, clearly taking it for the compliment it is. “Well, goodbye then,” she finally says in a rush, as though she can’t bear to linger any longer. “Or else I’ll never leave.”

\---

 

Claude’s carriage has scarce rolled out of the courtyard before Bash summons Lord Maillard, newly appointed to the privy council to replace Chateauroux, to his office, where they both wait for him.

 

Lord Maillard has come highly recommended by Lord Castleroy: a Catholic, so as not to unbalance the religious composition of the council and, like Lord Castleroy, wealthy enough in his own right that he is unlikely to risk his elevated position for further pecuniary gain. His fair and honest dealings have earned him respect among peers who might otherwise have scorned him for the recent creation of his title. In honor of his new position, he has also been granted new rooms at court. His wife is quite puffed up with pride over their proximity to Bash’s, as it is seen as a sign of royal favor.

 

“I want letters patent drawn up at once granting Lord Bayard the dukedom of Valentinois.”

 

Valentinois was Diane’s duchy, which reverted to the Crown upon her death.

 

“At once, Your Majesty.”

 

When the letters patent are brought to him later that same day for his approval, Bash signs them with a bold, relieved flourish.

 

\---

 

A few weeks after Claude’s departure, Lord Castleroy returns with the expected answer that is not nearly so disappointing as it would have been before Leith volunteered himself to take on the role Louis refused.

 

“He was heedless of the threat of war and asked that I remind you that now _he_ is next-in-line to your throne.”

 

 _Damn it._ She’d not gotten him to live up to his end of the bargain and sign away his rights properly before he’d become so enraged by Diane’s announcement at that awful dinner. But she couldn’t have dreamed that would happen. 

 

“He is not,” Bash retorts with some satisfaction, as though forgetting for a moment that he’s speaking to Lord Castleroy and not the wayward King of Navarre.

 

“I –”

 

“My children have been legitimized.”

 

Lord Castleroy’s eyebrows rise. “I see.”

 

“It’s all done up properly by the Vatican. And Bellagio just informed us two days ago that we’ve received our dispensation.”

 

 _That_ had been a very good night.

 

And she’d met with Greer the following morning for tea to discuss the party that will be held to announce their betrothal. She thinks it a bit ridiculous, but there is still a part of her that loves parties, that wants everything that she didn’t have the first time they were wed. And if they’re to have a grand wedding worthy of royalty, they can hardly do nothing to announce their intent to remarry.

 

\---

 

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she laments after Greer scolds her soundly for not telling her sooner that she’d finally accepted Bash’s proposal. It seems such a mundane problem, in a way, that it’s a relief. She pouts into her cup of ginger tea as though it will suddenly offer the answers she seeks.

 

“Oh, Kenna, don’t fret,” Greer says, putting down her chocolate after taking a sip. She takes a longing look at the untouched apple tarts, but doesn’t pick one up. “Do you want any?”

 

“No, I’m not hungry.”

 

“I really only ordered them because I know they’re your favorite,” Greer sighs. “I never have them otherwise because left to my own devices, I’ll eat them all. Marianne!” she calls her elder daughter. “Share these with your brother and sister.”

 

 _I named her before Mary . . . well, you know_ , Greer had explained in a guilty whisper after introducing her children.

 

Marianne looks positively thrilled. “Thank you, Mama!”

 

“Don’t run,” Greer calls after her, but it’s too late.

 

“I know what I would have wanted a decade ago, but it’s all hopelessly outdated now. Help me!”

 

Greer claps her hands together in delight. “Oh, you don’t even need to ask. My mother was a nightmare when _I_ got married, I had no say in anything. Gemma’s wedding was the first I ever planned myself.”

 

Although Greer will not own that she has favorites among her children and stepchildren, Kenna is near-certain Gemma is her unacknowledged favorite. Gemma was, by far, the person most frequently mentioned in Greer’s letters besides Lord Castleroy himself. Likely a not insignificant factor was how well Gemma took to Greer personally when she married Castleroy and how warmly she welcomed her younger half-siblings as they arrived. No matter that she also knew how besotted Gemma was with her groom of choice, Greer wrote that she wept a storm as the happy couple left their wedding festivities to retire for the evening, knowing that the consummation would make it all truly final.

 

“I’ll be thrilled to plan another. And this with a royal budget,” Greer says with no small satisfaction. “Just leave it all to me. Well, let’s see. First, there’s the betrothal party . . .”

**\---**

 

Bash continues his explanation to an increasingly bemused – if pleased – Lord Castleroy. “But we’re waiting until the right moment to share the information publicly. Clearly waiting’s had the added advantage of lulling Louis into a false sense of security,” Bash adds with no small satisfaction.

 

“He also wanted you to remember all that you . . . share. You and Kenna and he and . . .” Lord Castleroy hesitates. For the time being, Claude’s marriage still stands and so she is, at least in name, still Queen of Navarre.

 

“My sister,” Bash finishes.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I see. Well, we won’t have war. Kenna has found a better solution. It infuriates me to let him have his way, but I do believe it’s best for Claude.”

 

“And that is –?”

 

“An annulment and a new marriage. Quickly.”

 

“Right,” Castleroy says, showing only a slight bit more of the tremendous puzzlement he must feel. “May I ask to whom?”

 

“My deputy. I’ve granted him Valentinois.”

 

Lord Castleroy’s brows rise. “Ah. Very good.” When it seems he’s had a moment to overcome his surprise, his tone becomes much more confident. “He’s a good man. I’m certain he will treat her with every kindness.”

 

\---

 

“So I had an idea,” she begins later that night, drawing an idle pattern on Bash’s chest.

 

“Hmm?” He’s a bit preoccupied if the hand sliding higher up her leg is any indication.

 

“Stop. Not tonight,” she scolds, tugging the hem of her nightgown back down into place to shield herself from his wandering hands. “I’m tired.”

 

“We’re not even remarried yet,” he grumbles good-naturedly. “And already I’m being turned away.”

 

“You know my appetites are usually voracious,” she teases. “But tonight I’m tired.” She yawns for effect.

 

“Too tired to tell me your idea?”

 

“Too tired for physical exertion.” She continues drawing circles on his chest. “And usually we _quite_ exert ourselves. Anyway, my idea . . . I was thinking, with a wife and child who will need his attention in the near future, I doubt your deputy will have enough time to see to every little thing himself. He needs . . . deputy deputies, if you will. _Assistant_ deputies. France is far vaster than Scotland. They can handle the work that requires traveling to far-flung corners of the kingdom and report to him, so you can keep him here at court most of the time and give him a spot on the privy council. You need more men you can trust there. And you can make the assistant deputy posts respected positions.”

 

“So the Lady Barnards of the world don’t disrespect their wives?”

 

“Lady Reyne now, and yes, among other things. By the way, couldn’t you banish her and her husband from court for some trifling offense or other? She was dreadfully rude to me when I returned.”

 

“I’m sure Leith can find one. If Reyne is anything like her first husband, there will be more than enough not-so-trifling offenses to take care of them for us.”

 

“And give the assistant deputies titles. Perhaps make them barons, now that Leith has the duchy. It will make the positions ideal for younger sons seeking their fortunes and willing to work for them.”

 

“That’s an excellent idea,” he says proudly.

 

“I know.”

 

He smirks. “Let it never be said you suffer from a lack of confidence.”

 

“And thank God for that.”

 

“And for you.”

 

“That’s very sweet, but it won’t get you under my nightgown.”

 

“I mean it.”

 

“I know you do,” she says, kissing him softly. “And I love you for it.”

 

“I love you, too.”

 

She lays her head on his chest, lulled to sleep by his heartbeat.

 

\---

 

She stretches awake the following morning, blinking sleepily at Bash, who stands in the doorway with a breakfast tray. “Last night I went to bed with a king and I wake up to find he’s really a servant,” she teases.

 

“Only _your_ servant, my lady,” he returns in kind. “Since you were so tired yesterday, I thought you might like breakfast in bed. I ordered some of your favorites. I could even feed you myself.”

 

She’s not terribly interested in anything the tray has to offer. “But I’m not really hungry. Not for food, anyway.”

 

Bash’s eyes light with interest.

 

“Put that down over there. I can think of other ways I’d rather be served.”

 

He sets down the tray on the other side of the room so quickly before returning to bed that it’s nearly comical.

 

\---

 

One of Lord Castleroy’s servants arrives early the following morning with a request to see her, which is brought to her once Bash has departed. She’s both intrigued and concerned, so she sends him back with an invitation to breakfast and tells Nanny Moira to take the children to Bash and give him her regrets.

 

“Good day,” Castleroy greets softly, but cheerfully, when he arrives.

 

“Good day,” she returns. “I’ve not much of an appetite, but please help yourself.” She hasn’t had much of an appetite since the incident with the cat. Her favorite apple tarts sit at the furthest point of the table from her because they turn her stomach and even the fruit on her plate remains untouched. Lord Castleroy does help himself, whilst she merely pokes at her fruit to make it look as though she has at least nibbled at it. She knows the poor cook went to such trouble to procure a bushel after she requested it specifically that she feels dreadfully guilty. “Was there anything in particular that you wished to discuss?” She tenses, and waits.


	35. mother-to-be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I do wish I had more time,” Greer complains as they discuss their plans for the party celebrating their betrothal the following morning. “This will be lovely, but I could do even better with a bit more time. What’s the hurry?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For remmierose, my ever faithful reviewer.
> 
> (That said, if any of you want to join her, that would be much appreciated! Comments are fuel and very much appreciated.)

“Congratulations”

 

She sets down her fork. “I beg your pardon?”

 

Lord Castleroy’s eyes are all-too knowing. It should frighten her, when she thinks it impossible to tell yet. It’s not as if her belly is straining against the fronts of her gowns; it’s early days yet. She’s only just recently missed her course and realized herself because she’s had two children and knows her own body at this point. Even if she didn’t, there is also Nanny Moira to point out the obvious.

 

But she truly didn’t think anyone besides Nanny Moira would realize yet. The only visible change is in her breasts – larger, yes, but not yet so changed as to be obvious when she’s fully dressed. Her emotions are more acute, but that could be attributed to everything that’s happened recently. The only people who might notice her nausea and fatigue are those who are with her regularly, but the children haven’t, of course, and Bash has been quite preoccupied. And she doubts he ever connected her sudden craving for pomegranates when she carried Tara with the pregnancy itself.

 

Lord Castleroy smiles at how flummoxed she is. “I recognize the signs,” he says. “The king must be pleased,” he continues, as casually as if they were discussing good weather for a royal hunt. ~~~~

“I haven’t told him yet. With everything that’s happened . . .”

 

“Of course. But you don’t want him finding out through castle gossip. I know I’d rather hear such happy news from Greer herself.”

 

She hears what he doesn’t say – what he may not know precisely, unless Greer has shared her confidences: dawdling did not work out very well for Claude.

 

\---

 

With her first pregnancy, she snaps her news at Bash, irritated that he would badger her as to what was the matter when she was busy emptying her stomach into her chamber pot. “I’m pregnant, you fool!”

 

Until then, she held the news close, keeping it secret amongst herself and Nanny Moira and her father, worried Bash would be displeased given their precarious circumstances.

 

His reaction assuages those fears.

 

He is sitting behind her, holding her hair back, and his hold on her long locks slackens the moment she spits the words at him, all the while not looking up at him, but down at the depths of the chamber pot.

 

But at that moment, she lifts her head up, angered until she sees the smile on his face. “You aren’t angry?”

“I think you’re angry enough for both of us,” he teases.

 

“You did this to me,” she grumbles. “But really, are you?” she asks, the nerves that kept her silent rising again.

 

“No.” He touches her face, suddenly serious. “I – I didn’t know how I would feel. I’m happy. But also –” he seems almost ashamed to say it. “Scared –” _We’ve nothing for a child_ , she expects him to say (the same refrain she’s heard before), but what he says instead brings tears to her eyes. “Childbirth is so dangerous, you know.”

 

Gently, she touches his face then. “All will be well; you’ll see.”

 

He smiles again. “I would kiss you but . . . well –”

 

She narrows her eyes at him and slaps his arm. “Anyway, I’m too stubborn to die. And you’d make a terrible widower, all brooding all the time. I’d certainly want to spare the world _that_. You won’t be rid of me so easily.”

 

“Oh, what a terrible fate, a lifetime with you.” The love and warmth in his eyes belies his words.

 

~~\---~~

She knows it’s not the best circumstances now either, but this time she means to share her “happy news” as the happy news it _is_.

 

They’ve already arranged to have the suite of rooms closest to Bash’s prepared for the children; though it’s not as if her current rooms are all that far from him – only far enough for propriety – they’re not near enough for her taste and so, of course, too far for the nursery.

“How upset do you think Lord and Lady Maillard would be if they were asked to move to a different wing of the castle?” she asks over supper one night that she arranges to dine alone with Bash.

 

“Have they displeased you?”

 

“No; it’s just that I rather think we’ll need the space, for the children.” The only other space close enough belongs to Greer and Lord Castleroy and she refuses to have them moved. Suddenly she finds her unappetizing venison the most fascinating thing in the world.

 

“How many more rooms could two children possibly need?”

 

She looks up at him.

 

He’s not irritated, merely confused.

 

And he has no idea that he’s given her the perfect opening. “Three.”

 

“Three –?” Bash repeats questioningly. She knows that it’s sunk in when he drops his fork. “Really?”

 

Somehow she resists the urge to laugh at him and simply nods. “I – I know the circumstances aren’t ideal –” she begins apologetically.

 

“To hell with ideal,” he says with a laugh, standing and striding over to her side of the table.

 

“You kneel rather easily for a king,” she teases as he takes a knee before her, placing a careful hand on her belly.

 

“Only for my queen –”

 

“I’m not your queen yet.”

 

“You’ve always been the queen of my heart.”

 

She can’t help the tears his words trigger. “How dare you make your queen cry, then,” she scolds as they course down her cheeks, a scolding she delivers with a smile. God, what a mess she is.

 

He reaches up to wipe away her tears. “Of course that means we must do things up properly a bit more quickly than we planned for. We can’t wait for my coronation if you’re to have the wedding of your dreams this time around.”

 

“I don’t need –”

 

He looks deep into her eyes. “I _want_ you to have it. Let me give you that.”

 

She nods and can’t help crying more.

 

\---

 

“I do wish I had more time,” Greer complains as they discuss their plans for the party celebrating their betrothal the following morning. “This will be lovely, but I could do even better with a bit more time. What’s the hurry?”

 

Kenna raises an eyebrow. “He truly didn’t tell you.”

 

“ _He_ truly didn’t tell me what?”

 

“Lord Castleroy, he truly didn’t tell you that –” she drops her voice to a whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

 

“Oh, _Kenna_.” Greer smiles knowingly before embracing her. But then she frowns. “Why didn’t _you_ tell me? And why in God’s name would you tell _Aloysius_ before me?” she scolds. “I’m not sure I can forgive you for that.”

 

“I didn’t! He guessed. Having so many children himself, I suppose he’s become quite adept at reading the signs,” she teases.

 

“Shut it, you,” Greer scolds, but the admonition lacks real heat. “Is Bash pleased?”

 

She can’t help the silly smile that spreads over her face. “Very. But he still wants me to have the wedding of my dreams, so we need to get on with this.”

 

Greer shakes her head. “If I’m to do this quickly, I’ll need help. Perhaps Adelaide, you really ought to get to know –”

 

“You do realize Leith is quite lost to her, don’t –”

 

“Of course,” Greer interrupts exasperatedly. “And even before everything happened with Claude . . . well, I realized they didn’t really suit. But there is someone else who suits her quite well.” Greer smiles mischievously.

 

“And who is that?” she asks absently, having turned her attention to the fabric samples Greer has already ordered from the head seamstress in charge of those tasked with seeing to her wedding clothes.

 

“Your brother.”

 

She looks up. “No,” she says skeptically.

 

“Yes. I realized when I saw that not even his good manners could keep his attention on her friends at gatherings –”

 

How could she have _missed_ it?

 

“And when she and Lord Desrosiers began trying so to butter up your aunt, I realized the interest was mutual. Really, they should be trying to butter _you_ up, but I suppose they think it rather presumptuous to impose on the queen-to-be’s time.”

 

“Invite her to tea in your apartments. I’ll come and we’ll get better acquainted. I can’t let just anyone marry my brother.”

 

Greer smirks over her cup of tea. “Of course. Not just anyone will do for the Queen of France’s brother.”

 

\---

 

It does not take her long to conclude that she is quite comfortable with her brother’s choice and quite ready to tell him so. Lady Adelaide’s eyes brighten perceptibly whenever they find ways to mention him, her beauty even more apparent than it otherwise is. She has a sly, quiet wit that will ensure Andrew will never be bored with her and, as far as she can tell, Kenna rather likes her. And Greer promised that Lady Adelaide _really is quite good with children_. _My children adore her and Tara seems to have taken a liking to her, too._

 

Then again, Tara was also fond of Louis and what a heartless snake he’s proven to be. 

 

As the only surviving child of a father who lost two wives in childbed while she was still a little girl, Lady Adelaide took on the role of lady of the manor from a young age and so understands well what it means to be the mistress of a great house and the surrounding lands. It also means, that should Andrew not return to Scotland – Kenna knows he received orders from King James at some point during the difficult days after Antoine’s death to stay and represent him here – they would be quite comfortable in France even if Bash should not bestow some sort of grant on Andrew.

 

Which he will. She will make sure of it. But she has more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.

She nearly says _please call me Kenna; we will be sisters soon enough_ when Lady Adelaide – who is also wonderfully discreet, clearly sensing when Kenna wishes to speak to Greer alone – rises to leave. But that is overbold. She doesn’t want to steal her brother’s thunder. “Please let’s dispense with the formalities. I hope we will be very good friends.”

 

“I hope so as well.”

 

“Good. I’m so pleased, Adelaide.”

 

“As am I . . . Kenna.”

 

\---

 

“Greer?”  she asks once they are alone.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Would it be unspeakably bad form to have the wedding and the coronation altogether? It’s just that then there will be other festivities we’ll need to have,” she adds significantly. “And it really shouldn’t be put off _forever_.”

 

“Well, from what I can tell from my consultations with those who understand French royal customs far better than I –” The put-upon look on Greer’s face tells her just how tedious those consultations were. “You need to drag the full court off to Reims for the coronation. Notre Dame is lovely and I’d love for you to have your wedding there, but I think it’ll have to be Reims because most kings have been crowned there. In fact, I think the only one who was crowned at Notre Dame was . . . well, he wasn’t even a French king, really.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Henry VI of England.”

 

“Oh. Then it wouldn’t look good at all to be crowned at Notre Dame.”

 

“No, it wouldn’t. And having the wedding and coronation together is already changing tradition as it is. You don’t want to change things more than you need to. As for the order –”

 

“Bash wants us crowned together.”

 

“The wedding first, then. It can all be very grand, while still saving the royal treasury money. Begin moving court the week after your betrothal party, after the Feast of the Epiphany, and remain there through the festivities.”

 

\---

 

“Are you really all right with what we’re planning?” she asks Bash after sharing Greer’s ideas.

 

“Well, I was expecting Paris, Notre Dame, the Louvre and all the rest –”

 

She turns to look at him in disbelief. “You hate Paris.”

 

“But you love it, and I’d love it for you.”

 

She smiles. “But being crowned at Reims is what’s proper and well . . . after all the upheaval here in France and everything before that, I really think we’d better take care to do things properly.”

 

“I suppose, but all I really care is that you’re happy with it all.”

 

“I hope you feel that way about everything. Because Greer tells me that we _will_ have to do the _entrée joyeuse_ into Paris after.”

 

“Greer tells you, hmm?”

 

“You can ask her yourself.”

 

Bash sighs theatrically. “What exactly have I gotten myself into?”

 

\---

 

“Your Grace?” Gabrielle asks hesitantly amid preparations for the party.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I heard something I thought you should know. Lord Huntley’s orders recalling him to Scotland have changed.”

 

“Oh,” she says quietly. She knows about Andrew’s orders to stay, but she hadn’t known that John had received orders to leave. “To what, precisely?”

 

“He’s been commanded to go to England and serve as ambassador there instead.”

 

“Oh,” she says again, uneasy. Having someone who has as much reason to resent them as John does at English court is no small thing.

 

“After negotiating Lady Tara’s betrothal to Prince James.”

 

Prince James, the eldest of the former earl of Moray’s children, his only son and heir. King James must mean to fulfill the terms of the peace treaty he and Bash signed to end the rebellion.

 

“Pending her legitimization, of course.”

 

“Of course,” she echoes. “Thank you, Gabrielle. How did you learn of this?”

 

“Lord Huntley’s manservant. He was out in the gardens while I was taking the children out for some air as Nanny Moira told me to. I was a bit suspicious, because his eyes seemed to linger too long on Lady Tara. So I asked what he found so interesting and he said the future queen of his country. I only had to ask more for him to answer more.”

 

“I’m surprised they won’t ask for Charlie. James has two daughters –”

 

“Well, he’s spoken for, isn’t he?”

 

“That is true.” Had Gabrielle been present the day she struck her bargain with Elisabeth? Or had she acquired that information some other way?

 

“Perhaps they know that already. Does Lord Tarras know? He is such good friends with Lord Huntley.”

 

“He does not, yet.” Any matches they make for their children will not be public knowledge until their legitimization is, after their wedding. She looks at Gabrielle appraisingly.

 

For all that she has thought of Gabrielle as mousy . . . well, it’s a matter of attitude. Gabrielle is not unattractive. She’s clearly not unintelligent, able as she was to extract information from John’s famously tight-lipped manservant.

 

With some confidence and more care for her appearance, Gabrielle might yet be capable of bringing men to their knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted them to marry at Notre Dame and move the court to the Louvre, but ultimately changed it, because I think someone would have recognized that having the coronation anywhere but Reims would be a poor decision given the still-recent instability of the French monarchy. Also, the real Francis I was crowned at Reims, but Reign!Francis and Mary were, very oddly, crowned in the castle, which I have generally assumed is Fontainebleau.


	36. love lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She insists on being present for the negotiations, much to the bewilderment of all the men but Bash and John himself. It is yet another thing to juggle amidst her preparations, but it is truly the most important thing. Greer can be trusted with party planning and arrangements for the wedding and the coronation, but the stakes of this negotiation are her daughter’s future and happiness.

John is most eager to act on his sovereign king’s orders, claiming that James requires him in London at once, but she suspects his haste is due in no small part to her betrothal; she knows Andrew has already told him so he would not be startled by the public announcement. She insists on being present for the negotiations, much to the bewilderment of all the men but Bash and John himself. It is yet another thing to juggle amidst her preparations, but it is truly the most important thing. Greer can be trusted with party planning and arrangements for the wedding and the coronation, but the stakes of this negotiation are her daughter’s future and happiness.

 

It is a surprisingly uncomplicated negotiation, in part, she suspects, because John concedes more than another might have on the thing that matter most to her and to Bash, both for himself and because of the importance she places on it: when and where the wedding should take place.

 

James wishes for the wedding to take place in Scotland when Tara is 14 – in short, about as soon as she could possibly be bedded and expected to bear a child, which they are both vehemently against. It’s simply too young. She refuses to entertain the notion of her daughter marrying any younger than 16 and would, in truth, prefer that she be older than that.

 

They finally settle on 17 and in France, for all that John insists he will face James’s displeasure for it, despite how much dearer Tara’s dowry will be in exchange.

 

Not even ten full years more with her firstborn . . . She doesn’t know how she’ll bear it.

 

\---

 

“I expect you’ll spend half your time sailing between France and Scotland,” Bash teases when they are alone that night in his sitting room before the fire, Kenna perched on his lap.

 

When she turns her head to look at him, she sees the wistfulness in his eyes for the lost years he can never have back and the precious few that are left to them with their daughter, and her heart aches.

 

“Why can’t we just keep her here forever?” he asks childishly.

 

“I wish that we could. But we can’t.” She sighs. “And we’ve agreed to betroth our son before his third birthday.”

 

“You agreed,” he corrects.

 

She flinches; the lack of accusation in his tone feels more accusing than an accusatory shout would have been. “I had to.”

 

Sometimes she wonders at the fact that she arranged a marriage for her two-year-old son. Neither of her children will be able to marry for love. From her years serving Mary, she knows love is irrelevant to royals, but their children are just their children. It is hard to think of them any other way. But they will find love in their marriages, she tells herself. She did, and she had been forced to marry at sword point.

 

“Or else Elisabeth wouldn’t have helped you expose my mother for what she really was,” he finishes solemnly.

 

“Bash –”

 

“I’m sorry. I know you don’t wish to dwell on it, but I don’t blame you. Really I don’t. I don’t know that I would have believed it without that, that I wouldn’t have stopped at blaming Chateauroux and never realized who the mastermind behind it all was otherwise.”

 

She sighs again.

 

After a long silence, Bash clears his throat. “Just so you know,” he informs her, hand sliding from its resting place at her hip to spread out over her still-flat belly. “This one’s never getting married. He or she is staying with us forever. I command it be so.”

 

She tilts her head to look at him again. “That sounds lovely.” She touches her nose to his, eyes closing a moment as she tangles her fingers with his over where their baby rests within her.

 

\---

 

The following morning, the man she might have married comes to say a private farewell.

 

“Lord Huntley to see you,” announces Gabrielle.

 

“John. I’m sorry,” she says, one last time, as soon as Gabrielle has left them.

 

“I know. But the heart wants what it wants, and I should have accepted that sooner. I only want you to know that you have nothing to fear from me, in England. Whatever I feel toward Sebastian, I would not hurt you or your children for the world. Not ever,” he promises, understanding her concerns as well as he always did. “Be well, Kenna.”

 

“Be happy, John. I wish that for you from the bottom of my heart.” She kisses his cheek. “Farewell.”

 

He kisses her hand. “Farewell. I wish you every happiness.”

 

_And never the twain shall meet again._

 

\---

 

The day after John’s departure, she awaits her older brother’s arrival with a full luncheon spread, though she is painfully aware that she won’t be able to enjoy a bite of it. Instead, for herself, she has a teapot of piping hot ginger tea and a bowlful of pomegranates that she can’t stop herself from starting on. Andrew’s note asking to speak to her, which arrived before she had a chance to send for him, sounded so serious that she’s concerned.

 

“Lord Tarras to see you, Your Grace,” Gabrielle finally announces.

 

“Help yourself,” she says grandly once Andrew is seated, gesturing to the delicious spread she can’t partake of. Her beloved apple tarts still turn her stomach.

 

Her brother busies himself selecting a few savories and sweets that he only picks at in silence for a few moments. Then he looks up. “May I?” he asks, already reaching for the teapot at her right hand. “I’m parched.”

 

“You won’t want that,” she says quickly.

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s ginger. Tea, I mean,” she corrects hastily.

 

Andrew wrinkles his nose; he has always hated ginger tea.

 

“The other pot’s chocolate,” she adds, gesturing to the pot slightly left of center in the middle of the table.

 

He looks at her suspiciously for a long while until the silence is excruciating. “You’re drinking ginger tea, pale as death, and eating nothing but . . . pomegranates,” he finally says. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”

 

She hesitates.

 

This time, her pregnancy isn’t a problem for him to help her solve. He doesn’t need to worry about her now, at least no more than any brother would worry about his sister. For once, he is free to focus on himself and his own future.

 

“I think you’ve figured it out,” she finally says, bashfully. “I meant to tell you after you talked to me about whatever it is you sent that note about. What’s the matter?”

 

“We’ll get to that. It’s – it’s something I’ll hope you’ll . . . you’ll be as happy about as I am for you,” he says with a smile that crinkles his eyes.

 

It doesn’t surprise her; he loves Tara and Charlie so and she hopes his affection for this baby will run just as deep. He might only have reacted poorly if she’d told him before he knew that she is to be married again, fearful of what might happen, fearful for her and her child’s future. She smiles softly and reaches out to squeeze his hand. “If it’s what I think it is, then I know I will be.”

 

“I would’ve told you anyway, because you’re my sister, but I also know that, formally, I’m supposed to ask your permission –”

 

Because she has asked Adelaide to be one of her ladies-in-waiting after the wedding, of course.

 

“And I thought I should do that before . . . before I asked Lord Desrosiers for Adelaide’s hand.”

 

She claps her hands together in delight, even as tears gather in her eyes. “You have my permission and my blessing, not to mention my love and every wish for your happiness. No one deserves it more than you.”

 

Now it’s Andrew that reaches for her hand.

 

“When will you ask her?”

 

“I thought after your party, but before the court leaves for Reims.”

 

“Well, when we return, I want to throw you a party to celebrate, something very grand, because –” Normally, she isn’t quite so open with her affection, but she is pregnant and sentimental. “I love you very much, you know.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Good,” she says fiercely, digging into her pomegranates with exceptional relish.

 

\---

 

Greer and Adelaide do an extraordinary job planning the party to celebrate her betrothal, held the very next week. It is everything Kenna could have ever dreamed and then some.

 

The only things to mar her joy are the absences of certain people they hold dear. Lola is gone; Claude must stay away and Elisabeth, unfortunately, was forced to return to Spain. She left court immediately after receiving news of her daughters’ illness, leaving most of her household behind, their departures less urgent, but still to be arranged as soon as possible.

 

Other absences she is grateful for. Fortunately for the Austrian princesses’ pride, Elisabeth had, before her own unexpected departure, arranged for them to return to Austria with a discreet lie about the Empress’s ill health before the official announcement was to be made.

 

But of course, the most important person is never far from her side that night. It is not the extraordinary gown she wears – form-fitting silk to show off the slender figure that will soon be no more and her rather more generous bosom – or the even more extraordinary betrothal ring – _I’ll hardly be able to hold my hand up from the weight of it!_ – but Bash’s warm, solid presence at her side that reminds her how lucky she is, that everything they’ve suffered and struggled through was worth arriving at this moment.

 

\---

 

As the court prepares to leave Fontainebleau for Reims, Kenna decides that she wants a honeymoon.

 

Bash is not particularly thrilled by the idea. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to spend time with you away from everything, but do you really think it’s wise?” he asks with some concern.

 

“It’s not as if it’s strenuous travel. And it will do me good to get away from court before I have to be cooped up for my confinement. And we could – we could visit Claude at Chenonceau before we go off on our own.” It hardly seems right that Claude should be there alone, with no women close besides the midwife, no family besides the husband who is not yet actually her husband.

 

In the end, Bash gives in.

 

\---

 

Greer is aghast at her decision. As her chief lady-in-waiting, Greer insists that isn’t wise to leave the court behind before returning to Fontainebleau as queen when she is still carving out her place in her new role.  “What about the _entrée joyeuse_? And, well . . . when are you going to announce your good news?” Greer asks.

 

“I don’t think we’ll have to. It’ll be obvious by the time we return.” Despite how quickly they executed their wedding plans once she told Bash she was pregnant and how her new queenly wardrobe consists of nothing but high-waisted dresses, she knows no one will be fooled into believing this baby was conceived in wedlock. But what does it matter? This child may not have been conceived in wedlock, but it will certainly be born in it.

 

Greer sighs, clearly unimpressed that she doesn’t wish to make a fuss to announce the impending birth of her first child born royal. “Well, before you leave, we’ll need to discuss selecting your other ladies-in-waiting,” Greer adds.

 

She sighs too, accepting the list of suitable candidates Greer has drawn up God-knows-when, they’ve been so busy. God bless Greer; she’s dutiful to a fault.

 

“And companions for Tara and Charlie as well.”

 

She hopes Greer doesn’t think she needs to bother hinting for places for her own children. Tara gets on quite well with Marianne and nothing warms her heart like seeing the two girls, one brunette and one blonde, giggling with their heads close together.

 

“Well, your children, of course –”

 

“Of course,” Greer echoes, but there’s a hint of relief to it.

 

“Greer, anything you want, you only have to ask. I trust you implicitly. You know you’re one of the few people I can trust. You’re my friend, like my sister.”

 

“I – thank you.” Greer clears her throat, eyes over-bright. “Well, then, speaking of siblings, we also need to talk about the party you wanted to give for Andrew and Adelaide, so that preparations will be set when you return.”

 

“All right. And as for the _entrée joyeuse_ , we can go to Paris on our return and have the court await us at the Louvre rather than Fontainebleau.”

 

Greer looks off thoughtfully for a moment and then nods, satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And never the twain shall meet again” is a slightly altered quote from Rudyard Kipling’s “The Ballad of East and West.”


	37. queen-to-be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I remember when Elisabeth and Claude were small, how they dreamed of their weddings. The flowers, the dress, the man. The first time around, you got to choose none of it and . . . well, a wedding at sword point couldn’t have been the event you imagined. I know I was hardly the man you imagined for yourself.”
> 
> “No, you weren’t,” she agrees. “You . . . I couldn’t have imagined you in a thousand years,” she says softly.
> 
> Bash shivers then.
> 
> Worried, she touches his cheek, his forehead, as she’d do for the children. But he doesn’t feel over-warm or cold. “What is it?”
> 
> “It’s just . . . that feeling, as though I’d lived this moment before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the delay, and the short update! It was held in hopes of having more to say, but it seems this part was meant to be short and (sort of) sweet.

The preparations for their departure from Fontainebleau are feverish even in the midst of the lavish Christmas festivities, with parallel preparations at Reims for the wedding and to house the court and host their wedding feast, and one of the most important preparations is only complete the night before their departure.

 

“Monsieur Bonnard has worked day and night and your crown is finally complete,” Bash tells her, as proudly as though he’d crafted it himself.

 

The royal jeweler blushes at the acknowledgment of his industriousness.

 

“Emeralds?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, unwilling to admit just how impressed she is with the diamond and emerald-encrusted crown that is to be hers when it is finally revealed to her the night before their departure. “Isn’t that a bit vain, Your Majesty?”

 

And about as subtle as the necklace of emeralds and diamonds she’d received before Antoine and Claude’s welcome party.

 

“They’re for the children, of course,” he says over-innocently, the jewel-bright eyes he shares with Tara and Charlie dancing with uncharacteristic mischief.

 

“Of course.” She hopes their third child shares those eyes well, and just barely remembers not to raise the instinctive hand to her belly. “As everyone knows a queen’s children are where her true power lies.”

 

“Precisely.”

 

It’s obvious the entire conversation is going over the royal jeweler’s head, as the poor man is still sweating rivers at the thought that the queen-to-be doesn’t like his creation. After all, unless the king takes mistresses, it is the queen who will most frequently receive his wares as gifts. And _her_ king knows better than to even look at another woman.

 

She must put the poor jeweler out of his misery. “I might tease the king, but it’s lovely, Monsieur Bonnard. Well done.”

 

“I’m glad to have pleased you, Your Grace,” Monsieur Bonnard replies with no small amount of relief, the color returning to his cheeks.

 

\---

 

“Are you happy with all the arrangements?” Bash asks once they’re alone in their carriage the following morning, holding her close to his side. They are at the head of the endless line of carriages and carts in which the court leaves Fontainebleau for Reims, the children in the carriage behind them with Nanny Moira.

 

“Yes, it’s all perfect.” She turns her head to kiss him quickly.

 

He smiles. “I’m glad. I remember when Elisabeth and Claude were small, how they dreamed of their weddings. The flowers, the dress, the man. The first time around, you got to choose none of it and . . . well, a wedding at sword point couldn’t have been the event you imagined. I know I was hardly the man you imagined for yourself.”

 

“No, you weren’t,” she agrees. “You . . . I couldn’t have imagined you in a thousand years,” she says softly.

 

Bash shivers then.

 

Worried, she touches his cheek, his forehead, as she’d do for the children. But he doesn’t feel over-warm or cold. “What is it?”

 

“It’s just . . . that feeling, as though I’d lived this moment before. _Déjà vu_.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, this time around, you may still be stuck with the man –”

 

“This time, I’ve chosen all of it, including the man, because this time we chose each another. Remember? You asked and you waited until I said yes. And king or not, you are _everything_ that really matters, everything . . . everything my mother would have wanted for me if she’d lived to see me married. Everything I want for myself.”

 

“And what is that?”

 

She touches his cheek. “Brave, strong, kind, and . . . loving. So loving.”

 

“I hope your mother knew that also describes her daughter. I hope her daughter knows that, too.”

 

“Don’t make me cry,” she says, batting at his arm before settling back against him to sleep.

 

\---

 

“Darling, a lot’s going to change tomorrow,” she begins the night before the wedding, when it’s just Tara and her, tucked up close in her grand bed in the finest suite save the royal apartments at the Palais du Tau, the palace of the Archbishop of Reims, as spacious as those of the Archbishop himself. Even though her things will be moved into the queen’s rooms at Fontainebleau by the time they return, since the renovations to outfit them entirely to her taste are nearly complete, she concluded that it wouldn’t be proper for her to use the queen’s rooms until she is properly married and crowned.

 

Although she means to spend very little time in the queen’s rooms of any palace anyway, she cannot spend this night in the king’s chambers. It goes against every tradition. For French kings crowned at Reims, the tradition is to sleep alone the night before their coronations and be woken alone the following morning, with a feast at the palace to follow afterward.

 

“I know, Mama,” Tara says. “Tomorrow, you and Father will be married again and crowned, so you’ll be the queen and Charlie will be the dauphin and I’ll be a princess.”

 

She raises an eyebrow. “And who told you all that?”

 

“I hear things,” Tara says, with all the wise impertinence of a girl twice her age. “That’s why my dress is so grand.” Tara had nearly fainted with delight when she saw her completed gown for the wedding and coronation.

 

She knows Charlie will not share his sister’s delight, will struggle against the fussy outfit they’ll have no choice but to force him into tomorrow.

 

But Tara . . . her lovely, clever girl, with whom she has such a special kinship. Even though it’s all behind them now, they have been through so much together, the two of them, things that Charlie and the coming baby won’t remember or know at all, things that even Bash will never fully understand. Kenna knows mothers are not meant to have favorites, but if she were to have a favorite, she thinks it would be her firstborn. She does not know how she would have borne half the things she’s been through without her daughter.

 

She laughs. “Is that so, Your Soon-to-Be-Highness?” she teases in a haughty voice, though Tara will most likely be referred to as _Madame Royale_ , the style recently suggested by the Privy Council for the eldest daughter of the king.

 

“That’s so, Your Soon-to-Be-Majesty,” Tara mimics and they both burst into giggles that have Nanny Moira coming to the door to peek in disapprovingly, which only makes them giggle more.

 

\---

 

Her high-waisted white cloth-of-gold gown, cut full at the front with plenty of fabric so as not to give their good news away quite yet, but closely fitted elsewhere to showcase her slim arms and enviable bosom, is a marvel fit for the queen she hopes to be.

 

The morning of her wedding, she smooths it over herself with no small satisfaction, as happy as any woman has any right to be, with Greer and several maids hovering and fussing over her, her daughter sighing contentedly in the corner, and Charlie napping in his formal clothes – much to Nanny Moira’s distress – so that he won’t fuss during the ceremonies.

 

It’s a happy little hive of activity until Greer says she is nearly ready and prepares to put the crowning touch on her, which was also Greer’s personal gift to her: the pure diamond tiara and the veil she will wear for her wedding, which will be removed before the coronation so that she can be crowned during it.

 

It is the gift of a happy friend, but it also serves to showcase the Castleroys’ wealth, for few – if any – other families in France could make a gift of a diamond tiara fit for a queen without bankrupting themselves. With their wealth and the love and trust of the king and queen, they will be quite untouchable, even as Protestants.  

 

“Kenna can’t know until we know more,” she hears her brother hiss outside her chambers. “I won’t have her troubled unnecessarily.”

 

She all but slaps Greer’s hand away to get to Andrew. “I can’t know what?” she demands as soon as she wrenches open the door to see him jump away from Adelaide as guiltily as though she’d caught them kissing in a secret corner.

 

“Kenna, I –” He swallows hard.

 

“Tell me!” she demands.

 

“I don’t know how,” he chokes out.

 

Adelaide is silent, fretfully twisting her betrothal ring, and will not look at her.

 

“It can’t possibly be as bad as –”

 

“Kenna,” he interrupts.

 

She falls silent, finally noting how very, very white Andrew is, and suddenly she is afraid.

 

“After – after the waking of the king . . . the ceremony, I mean . . . Well, they began the procession, you know –”

 

She nods. Nearly everyone who will be in attendance at their wedding and the coronation who is not here in her rooms helping her prepare has already left to await him at the cathedral.

 

“Some . . . some man jumped out of the crowd watching and . . . and stabbed Bash.”

 

No. It must be a false report, a confused messenger – It cannot be. A king has guards all about when he is out in the open, how could an assassin get by them all?

 

She shakes her head, and unthinkingly, clutches her belly because she fears she’ll be sick. Her legs are shaking and her hands are shaking, her heart pounds, and she is not sure that her knees will support her any longer.

 

Losing Bash now that everything is about to go entirely _right_ for them is the worst imaginable thing and –

 

“Right now, that’s all we know.”

 

That is when everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I originally understood the information I found about the Palais du Tau, it seemed that the king essentially stayed there without the rest of the court – i.e., those attending the coronation – for a night of quiet contemplation, but I’m not really sure where the rest of the court would have been housed otherwise, so they’re all at the Palais du Tau together.


	38. bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t faint on me again,” Nanny Moira commands. “Don’t you dare.”

_Your Grace . . ._

_Kenna . . ._

 

_Kenna . . ._

_Kenna . . ._

Suddenly, she feels a stinging pain.

 

“Kenna!”

 

Instinctively, she sits up, shifting away from the pain.

 

“Finally,” the tart voice of Nanny Moira says. She’s sitting beside her on her bed, hand raised.

 

_Some . . . some man jumped out of the crowd watching and . . . and stabbed Bash._

 

She closes her eyes a moment, feeling like she might swoon again, but comes back to herself.

 

“Don’t faint on me again,” Nanny Moira commands. “Don’t you dare.”

 

“What – what’s happened?”

 

“He’s all right,” Greer says, reaching forward to squeeze her hand. “We received word that he’s all right.”

 

“He’s all right,” she repeats faintly, like a prayer. “Thank God.” She takes a shallow breath. She feels nearly faint again, but this time with relief. “Thank God. But how?”

 

“Apparently, the wound was superficial,” Andrew explains. “Thankfully, his deputy tackled the man to the ground before he could do much damage –”

 

Greer’s hand lingers at her throat.

 

“Do they know if he was acting on orders?” She’s surprised at herself; it’s a practical – _queenly_ – question rather than allowing herself to act like a mere mortal woman terrified for the man she loves.

 

“They aren’t certain, though he appears to be well and truly mad, so it’s entirely possible he wasn’t. But rest assured he’ll be questioned thoroughly,” Andrew promises. “Anyway, the wound, though shallow, was very bloody, so it looked far worse than it was, which caused something of a panic that resulted in word finding its way back to the palace, despite his strict orders that you not be told.”

 

“His orders?”

 

“I told you, it was a shallow wound. He was in full possession of his faculties as they bore him to the cathedral. They say he would have walked of his own power if his guards hadn’t acted first. The messenger says Nostradamus stitched it up quickly and that he’s quite determined that everything is to go on as planned today despite the delay.”

 

“If he’s well enough for it, then yes,” she says. “Yes, absolutely. But God, he could’ve _died_ ,” she says, hand at her mouth as her eyes fill.

 

\---

 

She sees Bash’s beloved face in her mind, followed by quick flashes of those who might wish to harm him – to harm _them_ . . .

 

_So the Lady Barnards of the world don’t disrespect their wives?_

_Lady Reyne now, and yes, among other things. By the way, couldn’t you banish her and her husband from court for some trifling offense or other? She was dreadfully rude to me when I returned._

_I’m sure Leith can find one. If Reyne is anything like her first husband, there will be more than enough not-so-trifling offenses to take care of them for us._

 

The Reynes, who had all their property seized as punishment for Lord Reyne’s schemes to fleece small landowners in his county to enrich himself illegally before he was thrown in jail.

 

 _You can’t give me what I want. I want Diane dead. I want her head. I want her to bleed and burn and_ hurt _. I cannot do to her what she did to me, because it is treason and because he has done nothing to deserve it, but, oh, if I could punish her!_

 

Lola and Lord Narcisse.

 

_You told me to get her pregnant because you knew she already was! I’m such a fool and you all have probably had such a laugh at my expense._

 

And of course, the king of Navarre, who could have succeeded Bash if his wound had been fatal and their son’s legitimization and right to the throne was not recognized because they weren’t yet wed.

 

\---

 

“But he didn’t, so don’t you _dare_ cry, because then we’ll have to spend even more time fixing you and your wedding will be delayed even further,” Nanny Moira orders sternly.

 

She nods and blinks very hard to keep her tears at bay. “Did the children find out?”

 

“No,” Nanny Moira assures her. “Charlie is somehow still asleep despite all the fuss –”

 

“He hasn’t been let out of our sight,” Andrew reassures her. Not only for Charlie’s own safety, of course, but for hers and Tara’s as well because if the worst had come to pass they would have had to fight to the death for his right to the throne. If –

 

She can’t let herself think of it, or she’ll start crying and she won’t be able to stop.

 

“And I sent Tara to the nursery with Gabrielle with orders that they speak to no one on the way,” Nanny Moira finishes.

 

“Good,” she says and they all stare at her for a long moment until Greer breaks the silence.

 

“I don’t mean to dwell on trivialities, but now that we know things are right and well and everything will go on as planned, I have to ask: if the wound was so bloody, what in God’s name will he _wear_?” There is such put-upon horror in Greer’s tone that Kenna knows it is meant to break the awful tension now that they know everything will be all right and they will, in fact, have reason – several reasons – to celebrate today.

 

Andrew laughs shortly. “Well, I can’t think of another man who was meant to be crowned today who could loan him –”

 

“No coronation clothes, but something adequate at least, Diane will have –” She stops herself short, but it is true. Diane had seen to it that he dressed the part of a king from the moment of his ascent. Surely she would have arranged for something they could make do with. “Greer, do you remember what Bash wore the night of her birthday feast?” Kenna’s dark deeds aside, so much that was good happened that night: they said they loved each other and she agreed to marry him again.

 

Greer pauses to think. “Yes. Yes, I think do.”

 

“Go to the king’s rooms and look for those clothes. I hope they’re there. And if they are, have them sent to the cathedral at once. If not, whatever else seems adequate.”

 

\---

 

She arrives at the cathedral in a closed carriage – rather than the planned open carriage, in light of what happened to Bash – and is carefully helped down by her older brother, on whose arm she walks through the grand double doors and down the aisle. When she reaches the altar, she’s so very relieved to see that Bash appears unhurt, if a bit pale, though she knows appearances can be deceiving. He is even well-dressed under the circumstances.

 

“Who brings this woman to be married to this man?” the Archbishop asks.

 

“I do,” Andrew says firmly, before releasing her arm and turning to her to lift the veil and kiss her cheek with a whispered _I love you_ that she echoes before putting her hand in Bash’s.

 

She rather feels for Bash; it strikes her then that not one member of the family he was born to is here: his parents dead along with most of his siblings, save Claude and Elisabeth, neither of whom could attend. While she misses her parents and Lola (Lola _couldn’t_ have been behind the attack, could she; she cannot be so paranoid as to distrust one of her oldest and dearest friends), she has the others she loves with her today.

 

She knows her relief shines through in her smile, because the smile Bash gives her in turn is both appreciative and reassuring. He gives her hand a comforting squeeze.

 

After everything they’ve done to protect each other, it couldn’t have ended that way, and she is so _thankful_ that the ceremony is half a blur as she basks in her gratitude.

 

“Sebastian, do you take Kenna for your lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

 

“I do,” he says, voice ringing out clear and strong, eyes glowing bright.

 

“Kenna, do you take Sebastian for your lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

 

She has a sudden moment of panicked near-laughter when she realizes she’s only addressed him by his full name when’s annoyed with him – and from the twinkle in his eyes as he waits on her she suspects he knows exactly what she’s thinking – but she soldiers on. “I do,” she says decisively. She can hear the smile in her voice that matches the one she knows must be on her face.

 

“You have declared your consent before the Church. May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. What God has joined, let no man put asunder,” the Archbishop intones. “Lord, bless and consecrate Sebastian and Kenna and may these rings be a symbol of true faith in each other. Through Christ our Lord.”

 

Carefully, Bash places her ring on her ring finger. “Kenna, take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

 

Then it is her turn to do the same. “Sebastian, take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

 

The Archbishop makes a slight “get on with it” gesture and she realizes he’s not going to prompt them to kiss in so many words.

 

Despite the hundreds – maybe even thousands – of times they’ve kissed, there is something new in the touch of their lips and the joy of this kiss. It is as bright and beautiful a miracle as the first time they exchanged _I love yous_ anew.

 

When they are properly wed at last, she turns to look at the other people she loves – their children, her brothers, Nanny Moira, her aunt, Greer – and is astounded to see her indomitable nanny shed a tear.

 

\---

 

Although she rather likes the idea of breaking tradition in hopes of a better reign for Bash than for the Valois kings who preceded him, she knows they cannot dispense with all of it without opening themselves to questions about the legitimacy of Bash’s rule, so they have kept all aspects of the traditional coronation outside of the king’s entrance.

 

One cannot get more traditional than the Archbishop of Reims. They wait at the front while he goes to join the other archbishops and bishops at the entrance of the cathedral.

 

When the abbot and monks of the Abbey of Saint-Remi arrive with the Sainte Ampoule in its reliquary, the Archbishop and the other archbishops and bishops solemnly swear to return the Sainte Ampoule to them after the Sacre.

 

She watches proudly as Bash takes his oaths standing before the main altar. He promises to defend the Church, to preserve its canonical privileges, to uphold peace and justice for his people and to drive out heretics. She is half-horrified at herself for barely resisting the urge to giggle as he makes that last promise.

 

After the _Te Deum_ is sung, the Archbishop presents Bash the golden spurs, symbolic of knighthood, which are placed on his feet, and the coronation sword, _Joyeuse_. Then he anoints him with the oil of the [ Holy Flask](http://www.reims-cathedral.culture.fr/vocabulary.html#ampoule) on his head, chest and hands and the Grand Chamberlain puts azure vestments with fleurs-de-lis on him. The Archbishop anoints his hands again, blesses the royal gloves, and places them on his hands with the royal ring on one hand, the scepter in his right hand, and the hand of justice in his left.

 

Then, finally, the Archbishop says, “God of eternity, the Commander of all powers, crown thee with a crown of glory” and places the Crown of Charlemagne on Bash’s head.

 

Bash is the duly crowned king of France now and the cathedral is filled with thunderous applause and shouts of “Long live the king! Long live the king!” as he rises to his feet from where he knelt before the archbishop and makes his way to his throne on the rood screen.

 

She can hardly believe it, after everything.

 

Shortly after he is seated, Bash motions for silence and it is her turn to be crowned.

 

Suddenly, irreverently, when she takes note of the spot where the oil of the Holy Flask clings to his chest – the clothes he originally wore included a shirt specially made so that it could be opened to expose his chest, she is glad she chose a gown that would allow for the anointment of her chest without staining. After Greer removes her tiara and veil – they received special permission from the Vatican for their Protestant nobles to be allowed to attend – she moves to kneel before the archbishop as Bash did before her.

 

Her coronation is far, far simpler, thank God. She isn’t sure that she could have taken the litany of prayers that accompanied Bash’s a second time. The archbishop presents her a ring, scepter, and hand of justice of her own before anointing her on the head and the chest. Then comes her crown, heavier on her head than when she took it in her hands the night Bonnard presented the emerald-and-diamond masterpiece, the applause and shouts of “God bless the queen!” ringing in her ears long after they’re through, even as she and Bash walk out into the sunshine hand in hand, church bells ringing in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finding old-school vows proved to be a bit of a challenge, so these were a bit of an amalgam. 
> 
> Also, I really simplified the coronation ritual because it would have taken up a chapter by itself otherwise and altered it somewhat for simplicity/narrative purposes.


	39. wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenna is the one who has the hardest time leaving the children as they make ready to leave the Palais du Tau.

There is, thank God, no formal consummation ritual for them; the feast, with its endless and countless toasts to their health and happiness, was long enough. Not even the pleasure of her daughter’s smiles or hearing herself addressed as _Your Majesty_ made it feel any shorter.

 

As soon as they are alone that night, the door barely shut behind them by dutiful attendants, Bash reaches for her eagerly.

 

She reaches for him just as eagerly, kissing and touching feverishly as they undress each other, unmindful of his wound in her haste until he hisses, long and low. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry –” She backs away from him, hands thrown up.

 

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Don’t apologize; I started it,” he says with the slightest smirk. “Let’s just . . . avoid that area and it’ll be perfectly fine. I promise.” He moves to close the gap between them again.

 

But _she_ doesn’t feel fine and she starts to cry, sobbing as hard as Tara did the day they told her they would marry again as she touches the skin just beyond the bandages. “I could have lost you today.”

 

“But you didn’t. I’m here. Here with you, and I’m not going anywhere. You won’t lose me,” he promises, gathering her close. When she finally calms, he wipes away her tears before touching her chin to tilt her head up and kissing her, soft and slow.

 

She nearly melts into it, but she’s careful not to touch him where it will hurt.

 

\---

 

Kenna is the one who has the hardest time leaving the children as they make ready to leave the Palais du Tau. She has never once left her children, never been parted from them for a single day. She has no idea how Bash could bear two years of it and that thought sets her off into such tears that it falls to Nanny Moira and Bash to reassure the children that she’s fine and will simply miss them _very, very_ much.

 

The children will be entrusted to Andrew’s and the Castleroys’ care while they are gone, particularly while Nanny Moira is with them at Chenonceau. She is no midwife, but she has been present at the births of all the children she’s had in her keeping save Andrew, so Kenna will feel better to have her with them.

 

Some of the members of the so-called large council – rather than the intimate small council that presently consists of Lord Castleroy, Lord Maillard, and Leith – had expressed concern at the former; a man _not even_ French _, entrusted with Monsieur le Dauphin and Madame Royale!_ They’d been outraged and had not ceased to complain about the decision until she appeared at a privy council meeting with a stinging, blindingly simple set-down: a reminder that the Scottish ambassador is also Monsieur le Dauphin and Madame Royale’s _uncle_ and one of the handful of people who’d stood between them and certain death at the hands of his rebellious countrymen when their position was not so exalted as it is now.

 

The privy councilors had held their peace after that, not even daring to register their protests over the fact that the royal children’s other guardians were Protestants. Andrew, despite his Protestant sympathies, is by all outward accounts a good Catholic. The council would likely have fits if they suspected that the queen’s brother might very well be a secret Protestant.

 

\---

 

They arrive at Chenonceau to find that Claude’s belly has grown so that she has difficulty walking unassisted from the weight of it and the midwife has ordered bed rest in a tone that brooked no argument.

 

“My mother would have been horrified to see me grown so fat,” Claude complains. “ _I’m_ horrified to see myself grown so fat.”

 

“Pregnant,” Kenna corrects half-heartedly.

 

Claude raises an eyebrow as if to say _look at me_.

 

“You weren’t at court when Lola was pregnant, but she was positively enormous. And you’re petite like her. It’s perfectly normal,” Kenna assures her.

 

Claude rolls her eyes.

 

“Have you been this difficult for Leith, too?”

 

Leith left Reims straight for Chenonceau after focused questioning of Bash’s would-be assassin had yielded nothing in the way of information about a likely mastermind.

 

The mad would-be assassin will be locked away for a time – the explanation being that he was a pitiful madman – in hopes that any co-conspirators or master would come to rescue him or, more likely, kill him to keep the conspiracy a secret and so be entrapped. If the ruse yields nothing, the man will be executed as a traitor.

 

“I would throw something at you if there were something close enough,” Claude retorts and that, too, is normal enough to make her laugh.

 

\---

 

But Claude’s labor is not normal, not normal at all.

 

Kenna remains with Claude and grows increasingly uneasy as Claude’s strength begins to fail her.

 

Even Nanny Moira is concerned, hovering unhelpfully over the harried midwife, who scowls at her. Kenna is so very glad she had the foresight to have Nanny Moira attend them here, because she doesn’t know if she could take this alone.

 

“You’ll – you’ll take care of it?” Claude grits out, gripping her hands tighter as if to command her attention, attention that hasn’t wavered from her for a moment since everything began.

 

“The baby?”

 

“Yes –”

 

“If need be, but it won’t be, because you’ll do it yourself,” Kenna tells her firmly, refusing to acknowledge how Claude is losing her color, how her screams of pain have faded to groans and whimpers.

 

“It’ll only be one more good push,” the midwife promises.

 

It seems to take a nearly impossible effort, but Claude manages it.

 

“A lovely girl,” the midwife coos, obviously relieved after the baby lets out a strong wail. “We’ll get her cleaned up and you sorted –”

 

Weakly, Claude reaches for the baby once the midwife has cleaned her, but before Kenna can help Claude settle the baby against herself, she hunches over in obvious pain. “ _Ohhhhh_ , it _hurts_! What’s happening?”

 

She freezes. _This is not normal._

 

“The afterbirth, Your Highness –”

 

It doesn’t hurt that badly.

 

“Just push like you did before with the next –”

 

She can hear the midwife gasp when Claude obeys.

 

“What’s wrong?” she demands.

 

“There’s another – another baby! I see the head. Bear with me, Your Highness, and just as before, push with all your might when the urge next comes.”

 

But it’s not enough and Claude’s flagging strength, which she pulled together to expel the first child from her body, is insufficient now.

 

She can see Nanny Moira, hovering about still as usefully as she is, gravelly catch her eye. She rises, the first baby still in her arms.

 

\---

 

“My sister,” Bash orders decisively, tone brooking no argument, before Leith can manage to breathe a word.

 

But the relief on his face is obvious; he could not have gone against Bash, because Bash is their king, but it’s clear that he would have made the same decision.

 

She knows it is the right thing to do. Already one child is safely delivered and, even if the other should die, Claude would live and have one child. Better that than two living children motherless, with a man to call father who did not truly give them life and a true father who refuses to recognize them.

 

The dark looks of the first baby, who still rests quite peacefully in Kenna’s arms, absolve Leith of responsibility in a way Claude’s words alone never could.

 

She knows Claude must live, but her heart aches for the baby that will be lost, and for how deeply that will hurt Claude. But it is more important that Claude live to feel that hurt at all, awful as that sounds.  

 

\---

 

Yet the second baby is saved. Like her sister, she is a tiny little thing and will certainly need a devoted wet nurse, but with that, she may well thrive. It’s Claude who remains cause for concern, having slid into unconsciousness as soon as the baby slipped from her.

 

But what comes next is the worst, by far – the process of expelling the afterbirth from Claude’s limp body. The midwife declares that there is nothing to be done, but Nanny Moira takes charge then, ordering them away as though they were mere servants and not the king and queen of France and a duke, shocking the midwife. She calls for two more servants to aid her besides the midwife and demands Kenna, Bash, and Leith not enter “even if you hear the most piercing screams you’ve ever heard. I’m told this will be painful beyond words, but it is the only way. That healer – the seer –”

 

“Nostradamus,” she supplies.

 

“He told me I would need to know this, that it would save a life. And I scoffed at him,” Nanny Moira shakes her head in disbelief. “I scoffed.”

 

\---

 

An eternity later, Nanny Moira emerges, her face pale and her apron stained with blood.

 

“How –”

 

“She lives and breathes, but weakly. She’s insensible and still she bleeds.”

 

None of them sleep that first night, watching Claude as though they can will her awake with their eyes.

 

\---

 

The babies are nameless for two days until Nanny Moira waspishly says that they need to be able to tell the girls apart. As far as they can all tell, the girls are identical down to their dainty toes.

 

“We’ve got the ribbons,” she says half-heartedly to Nanny Moira’s complaint and, even without the different-colored ribbons tied to their ankles, the girls already seem to have different temperaments. The elder is quiet and even-tempered; the younger more spirited and demanding despite the difficulty of her delivery.

 

“They need _names_ ,” Nanny Moira insists. “And I still think we should call for a priest and have them baptized.”

 

And, though Nanny Moira has yet to say it again, she also thinks the priest should perform last rites for Claude. _It won’t hurt her to have them done if she lives, but it will hurt her not to have them done if she dies._

There was a moment after she said that when she seriously thought either Bash or Leith would strike Nanny Moira, they’d looked so furious, but she knows the anger only covered the fear they all feel.

\---

She enters the nursery later that day to find that Leith has finally left the sickroom and is instead here, watching Claude’s sleeping daughters. She joins him for a moment in his contemplation. “Did – _does_ ,” she forcefully corrects herself before continuing. “Does Claude have names for them? Nanny Moira is getting cross about not knowing what to call them.”

 

“Not that she told me,” Leith says quietly. “But I suppose they need names, don’t they?”

 

“They do,” she says just as quietly.

 

He brushes a fingertip over the second baby’s cheek.

 

The corners of her lips lift. “Softest thing in the world, isn’t it?”

 

“Like flower petals,” he says thoughtfully. “I – I think she should be Marguerite.”

 

“That’s pretty,” she says idly, wondering what she’ll call her new baby. She eases the other baby, who’s begun to awaken, out of her cradle and into her own arms. “Your sister is Marguerite. Do you like that? I think you do,” she says as the baby burrows against her warmth and makes a soft, contented noise. “And who will you be, sleepy girl?” she asks softly.

 

She can’t be called Catherine. Not only because of the awful reminder she would become of the blood on Claude’s hands, but also because Elisabeth’s little Catherine is recently dead. Perhaps this baby can be named after Elisabeth or after her mother –

 

No. Not after Claude. Kenna has never liked the idea of naming children for people still living, so naming one of the girls for Claude would, to her, be tantamount to giving up hope for Claude’s recovery.

 

“What was your mother’s name?” She hopes it will be French, but she knows that Leith, though of humble beginnings, has something in common with her and her friends: his mixed Scottish and French heritage.

 

“Madeleine.”

 

“That’s pretty, too.” She looks down at the baby, who is stilling again in her arms. “Will you be Madeleine, then?” The baby doesn’t reply, of course, but she would swear she feels the first flutter from her own at that instant. It startles her for a moment and she stares off into space like a giddy fool, wanting for a moment to drop the baby back into her cradle and run to Bash, though she knows he won’t be able to feel it yet. When she comes back down to earth, she decides that the flutter is an excellent sign. “Hmm, I think you will. Your uncle will agree with me, and he’s the king, you know. If your mother doesn’t . . . well, that’s what she gets for worrying us all so very much.”

 

\---

 

One morning, they are awoken by a harried servant at their door, a young girl who averts her eyes and asks in a quavering voice what the king would have them do.

 

“About what?” she asks sleepily, coming to the door once she has shrugged on a robe.

 

“He’s at the gates –” The girl is all but tripping over her words. “The duke won’t allow him in, but –”

 

“Him who?” Bash demands from behind her, totally alert once awoken.

 

It’s a great trick, being able to go from sleeping like the dead to full wakefulness in an instant. She wonders a moment if that’s something he learned on campaign in Scotland or perhaps earlier, in Italy with Henry, and, if so, hopes he’ll never have need of this particular skill again.

 

“The – the King of Navarre,” says the poor girl in that same quavering tone.

 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Wikipedia, it appears that the first French princess to hold the honorific of Madame Royale – the style of the eldest unmarried daughter of the King of France – was Princess Elisabeth, eldest daughter of Henry IV, the first Bourbon king. Because Henry IV doesn’t exist here – and on your head a crown!Antoine of Navarre had no legitimate sons – Bash is the first French king since Henry II to have a daughter, so the Madame Royale style is first be proposed during his reign.
> 
> Marguerite means “daisy” in French. Historically, Mary’s “four Marys” were chosen in part because of their Franco-Scottish origins. Considering Leith is a district in Scotland and a decidedly un-French name, I thought there had to be some explanation for it and have decided that, at least in the crown!universe, Leith’s origins are similar to those of Mary’s ladies-in-waiting, except humbler. Specifically, we’re going with the idea that one of his maternal grandparents was Scottish – the reverse of Kenna, whose maternal grandmother was French.


	40. wearer of a crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She did not want to play God, but she didn’t have a choice.

_You cannot refuse the child now, then change your mind and claim it later,_ she told Louis months ago. He vowed he would never and she did not doubt him until that morning.

 

By the time Louis arrives, Claude has regained consciousness, much to their relief and that of her entire household. But she is still weak as she recovers from her nightmarish labor, and so they do their best to protect her from the distress his entirely unexpected – and, at this point, undesired – reappearance will undoubtedly provoke.

 

Louis, however, is not to be deterred. “Whatever you call yourself now, Bayard, the fact remains that Claude is still my wife and so I am lord and master here and you cannot bar my way,” Louis says determinedly.

 

Leith’s face reddens at that. “I don’t care about what you say I can’t –”

 

“And if the King of France bars your way?” Bash asks, emerging into the entryway.

 

She follows immediately at his heels. They’d dressed themselves with unseemly haste, running from their bedchamber to see to the interloper in a manner utterly unbefitting their royal dignity.

 

“Every man is king of his own castle and this one is still mine,” he replies, stepping around Bash.

 

“Not for long,” Leith mutters.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

His words are an answer to Bash’s question, but they are addressed to her. “I’m here to do exactly what you warned me I couldn’t do.”

 

“Louis –”

 

“You can’t stop me.”

 

She knows she can’t, that _they_ can’t, if he’s truly determined. “Then be careful. Don’t upset her.”

 

“If you upset her –” Leith’s hand flies to his side, as if to take out the absent sword that would usually hang at his hip.

 

Kenna puts a restraining hand on his arm. “Don’t,” she insists. “Don’t upset her,” she repeats to Louis. “Please. She’s not well.”

 

\---

 

“I won’t return to you. I’ll get an annulment. I _am_ getting an annulment! I’ll have it very soon. Mark my words, if you stand in my way, I’ll make myself a widow!”

 

It seems Louis did not listen to her in the slightest.

 

At Claude’s shout, Leith jumps to his feet.

 

“Stay,” she tells Leith. “Don’t make things worse, please.”

 

Both she and Bash rush to Claude’s bedchamber to see what precisely is happening and – she hopes – calm things.

 

\---

 

They’re greeted by the sight of Claude on her feet, weak and wan though she remains, looking threateningly up at Louis, face flushed with fury. It is more color than she’s had since before the birth of her daughters. “You’ll beg for an annulment soon enough,” Claude vows.

 

“My dear foolish wife, I will never leave you to Bayard. Unless of course you are so desperate to stay at his side that you would forsake our daughters.”

 

Our _daughters._ Though she knows what he is here for, it still shocks her to hear him say it so easily and she wonders at what might have changed his mind. Perhaps a spy in the household who reported that Claude’s daughters had his look?

 

“I will _kill you_ if you try to keep them from me.” Beneath the anger, there is a desperation in Claude’s voice that makes Kenna’s heart clench. It seems then that the sheer willpower that has kept Claude upright on shaky legs suddenly fails her because she pitches forward, not quite in a faint, but at the very least a strong wave of vertigo.

 

Louis’s eyes widen with fear the moment before he catches her.

 

“My sister obviously needs rest,” Bash says icily, putting himself forward to guide Claude back to bed. “And you are preventing her from getting the rest she needs. I won’t hesitate to have you thrown from the estate if you disturb her again, _lord and master_ or no.” 

 

\---

 

“Do you think I’ll abduct them?” Louis asks later that day when he sees that Kenna will not leave the nursery while he remains.

 

“It’s always a possibility.”

 

“I’m not a madman. Taking two infants from here to Navarre without a wet nurse could kill them. They’d starve.”

 

“You mean you wouldn’t bribe the wet nurse here?”

 

“And if she wouldn’t come?”

 

“Oh, so there’s no wet nurse amongst your party, amongst those you sent to the inn in town?”

 

“There isn’t.” He won’t look up from the girls; his eyes are quite firmly fixed on them.

 

And so she knows she is right, that there is a wet nurse awaiting the little princesses in the village and their father would make off with them if only they are left alone long enough.

 

“Do you know? They look just like my sister Marguerite’s girls did when they were small and my mother always said the girls looked just like Marguerite and our other sisters at the same age.”

 

“And so you cannot continue to disclaim them?” she asks over-innocently.

 

He turns his head to look at her. “I was angry and I was foolish,” he says flatly, and then he turns back to the sleeping girls. “What are their names?”

 

“The elder is Madeleine. She has a silver ribbon about her ankle, though you can’t see it, of course, because they’re swaddled. The younger is Marguerite. She has a gold ribbon around her ankle. That way, we can tell them apart.”

 

“My sister Marguerite was called Margot as a girl,” he says idly.

 

She cannot help but think of little Marguerite as Margot from that moment and, though she does not know it then, everyone will follow her.

 

\---

 

“Let her go,” Kenna pleads later that evening in the library, where, soon after arriving, she’d discovered the children’s books that had once belonged to the royal library.

 

In one of her better moods, Claude apologetically told Kenna that, according to the servants, the books had been amongst the boxes of things Catherine sent to the chateau after Charles’s death. Knowing that Bash would come to claim his throne, it seems Catherine meant to ensure that no child of his would ever touch the precious tomes. Claude insisted that they take them back to court when they left Chenonceau, but she’s not yet decided whether to take Claude up on the offer. Bash _has_ already made some headway in having the books replaced.

 

“There is no reason to force her hand, no love lost between you –”

 

Louis says nothing, but his eyes say everything, and suddenly she understands.

 

That makes it all the harder to say what she must. “I do believe there was a chance for you once. But your moment has passed and you won’t make her love you by forcing her to remain at your side. I don’t mean to be cruel,” she finishes apologetically. “Only honest.”

 

He closes his eyes a moment as if in pain. “What would you have me do?”

 

 _Divorce Claude and have done with it. A divorce would not affect your daughters’ legitimacy_ , she nearly says. He is Protestant and, though the Vatican would not recognize it, would not allow Claude to remarry, she knows Leith will have her under whatever conditions she comes to him, without question.

 

But Claude’s release would come at a price. How to bind Louis to them, to make sure he doesn’t take up arms against them or otherwise hurt them at a later date? Especially because he has yet to sign away his birthright. Especially . . .

 

Especially because they still don’t know – they may _never_ know – if he was behind the attempt on Bash’s life before their wedding. Charlie has been openly recognized as dauphin now and the new baby could very well be a boy, putting more and more people between Louis and the French throne, which, for all his protestations that he did not have designs on it, may make him increasingly desperate if he continues to think them his enemies. After all, his brother was ruthless in pursuit of his enemies, managing – albeit indirectly – to do away with a father and his firstborn legitimate son, with illness felling the legitimate sons that remained, and _he_ was ruthless enough to plot his brother’s demise. If they’re not careful, she could lose her husband and the son she already has, not to mention any sons to come. They may never rest easy, never be truly safe, if Louis’s interests are not bound up with those of the House of Valois.

 

_Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown._

 

She almost reaches out to touch the crown she isn’t wearing – one of the simpler crowns made for daily wear, none of which she ever plans to wear in private – when she thinks it, clenching her fists at her sides, hands stained with blood only she can see. But like Bash, she’s come too far in her efforts to protect her family to turn back now. “Let Claude be happy and seek your own happiness,” she says instead.

 

The regret on Louis’s face, the bitter knowledge that he allowed a moment’s misunderstanding to blaze into months of mad, vindictive rage and cost himself a chance at the sort of happiness he could never have had with Mary, is near unbearable. “How?”

 

“Could you tolerate her keeping Leith at her side if you remained married?” Lips a thin line, he makes as if to speak, but she continues anyway. “She could never bear his child; the midwife said, with utmost certainty, that she is barren now,” she reveals.

 

A shadow passes over his face. “Yes,” he finally says, hopefully. “She would tire of him in time. She always does. We’re rather alike that way.”

 

Will _he_ tire of _her_ in time, perhaps release Claude when whatever desire possessed him to seek her out has run its course? For Claude’s sake, for Leith’s, she can only hope. “Then settle things with Claude and after we’ll speak of you renouncing your claim to the throne and –” She thinks of the black-edged letter from Elisabeth that arrived shortly after she and Bash did, announcing the sudden and unexpected death of little Catherine Michelle. “The possibility of betrothing my son to your elder daughter.”

 

“My heiress, you mean.”

 

“Yes. Would you not like to see your daughter the Queen of France?”

 

“Crowns come at such a price,” he says pensively.

 

“They do.”

 

“Perhaps better a husband with no power of his own, who would be so grateful for a crown that he’d kiss her feet for it, would be better than the next King of France, to whom Navarre would mean little.”

 

“No power of his own also means no power to defend her kingdom against threats.”

 

“I need to think,” he finally says, and she leaves him to it.

 

\---

 

Louis seems to age ten years in the half-day he spends closeted with Claude.

 

“What will you do?” she asks carefully when he emerges, half-afraid of the answer.

 

“I will keep her in name and he in fact,” he answers resignedly. “And you will have my renunciation, on the condition that my daughter will be the next Queen of France.”

 

“Is that what Claude wants as well?”

 

“Claude got plenty of what she wanted,” he retorts, the look on his face so bitterly pained she can hardly bear to look at him.

 

\---

 

“This isn’t what I wanted,” Claude says in furious disbelief when they are alone, just the two of them with Leith. “You said you were on my side!”

 

“I am. But this protects us all, gives us all something we want. Otherwise – otherwise, he would destroy us all, Claude.”

 

“I could kill him here and now,” Leith says recklessly. “No one would know – you and Bash won’t tell and the servants would never breathe a word against me. They hate him for abandoning Claude.”

 

“It would haunt you for the rest of your life,” she warns. “Killing a man because he wants his wife and daughters at his side.” Leith is a good man, perhaps better than any of them, and he doesn’t deserve that. Even killing someone as deserving of death as Antoine haunts her still. “And however angry you may be, he is the father of your children,” she reminds Claude.

 

Claude does not even bother to acknowledge Kenna’s words. “It won’t go as far as that, because I won’t agree to any of this. You’ll break faith with him or I’ll tell everyone the truth about Antoine,” she threatens, heedless of Leith’s presence. “And Francis. You and Louis, you’ll both be ruined.”

 

Kenna returns the threats in kind. “And I’ll tell them what you did to Catherine. Antoine was a monster and Francis was mad, and neither of us committed matricide.”

 

“I’ll tell about Bash and me,” Claude says, clearly growing more desperate.

 

“That would do just as much, if not more, harm to you. After all, you tricked him. You’d never get what you want that way. You’d be deemed completely unfit to raise your daughters.”

 

“And Bash completely unfit to be king.”

 

That is the moment her sympathy evaporates. “You threaten his rule and you threaten our children! If you ever threaten him, threaten _them_ again, I swear to you that –”

 

“Am I supposed to stand idly by while you destroy –”

 

“Enough!” Leith shouts. Clearly, despite himself, _he_ is reasonable enough to understand.

 

But Claude is unmoved, bursting out in frustration. “I can’t believe what you’ve done!”

 

“I’m sorry. I really am. But I had no choice,” she says softly, contrite once more.

 

“Didn’t you?” Claude asks icily.

 

She doesn’t answer.

 

\---

 

She did not want to play God with Claude and Leith and Louis’s lives – or little Madeleine and Margot’s lives, for that matter – but she didn’t have a choice. She did _not_ , she tells herself as they depart Chenonceau for the Chateau d’Anet.

 

It isn’t easy, but she tries her best to put the awful weeks at Chenonceau and everything she’s done out of her mind. She _will_ enjoy her honeymoon. After everything she and Bash have been through to return to each other, they deserve this.

 

\---

 

There is a superstitious part of her that questions the wisdom of having their honeymoon at the lovely Chateau d’Anet, which was originally built for Diane by Henry and later seized by Catherine from her during Charles’s reign. Now, like anything else Diane ever possessed, the chateau belongs to Bash. But it is beautiful, and she cannot help but admire the two changes Bash has already had made: she knows for a fact that there were once two statutes of Diane as the goddess Diana that have now been replaced by statues patterned after the painting of _her_ as the goddess Diana.

 

More importantly, the fact of the matter is that without Henry and Diane’s decades-long relationship, there would be no Bash to love her and be loved by her. 

 

\---

 

Despite her initial reservations, their time at Anet is a dream she doesn’t want to wake from. They spend whole days in bed like they used to after they were first married and others entirely out of doors, riding and walking and taking their meals in the sunshine and the fading twilight, even lying in the grass kissing without an eye to anything else and splashing in the fountains as though they were children instead of a crowned king and queen. She isn’t sure which of those things most scandalizes the servants.

 

If only they could have the children at Anet with them, she would never leave, but they have too many responsibilities waiting for them elsewhere to stay here forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote “uneasy lies the head that wears a crown” is from Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 2 and is therefore anachronistic, but too perfect not to use.


	41. queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are greeted by cheering crowds and all the important personages of Paris when they make their official entry into the city. When they arrive at the Louvre, the entire court is assembled to greet them, an assemblage from the highest nobles to the lowliest servants, an assemblage as grand as the one that turned out to greet Mary when they all returned to France with her.

They are greeted by cheering crowds and all the important personages of Paris when they make their official entry into the city. When they arrive at the Louvre, the entire court is assembled to greet them, an assemblage from the highest nobles to the lowliest servants, an assemblage as grand as the one that turned out to greet Mary when they all returned to France with her.

 

At the forefront of their assembled court are the people she cares about most: her children. At first, Tara appears as well-behaved as if she were a princess from birth, standing as straight and tall as she can at Andrew’s side, but it seems she cannot help herself entirely, because the moment Kenna’s feet touch the ground after Bash helps her down from the carriage, Tara breaks into a run. “Mama! Mama!”

 

She is nearly knocked off her feet by the force of her daughter’s embrace.

 

“Careful, Tara,” says Bash, but the already gentle reprimand is further softened by the kiss he bends to drop on top of Tara’s head once she has stepped back.

 

“Did you miss me as much as I missed you?” she asks, patting Tara’s face. She’d swear her daughter’s grown even though she knows it hasn’t been _that_ long.

 

“As much as _we_ missed you,” Bash corrects.

 

“More,” Tara says emphatically.

 

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” he replies, eyes crinkling as he smiles.

 

“It _is_ ,” Tara insists.

 

“Well then it’s a good thing we brought you presents to make up –”

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Greer exclaims before Bash can finish, sounding distressed at her charge’s behavior once she’s at their side. While Greer’s primary role at court now is as Kenna’s chief lady-in-waiting, she also serves, for the time being, as keeper of the royal children, although the actual work belongs to Nanny Moira, who is assisted by Gabrielle, the nursery maids, and tutors.

 

Nanny Moira follows close behind, looking suitably unimpressed with them all, while Lord Castleroy bows beside Greer.

 

Greer must truly be flustered, because it is only then that she remembers herself and sweeps the curtsey that is only done for the benefit of the full court, because she has firmly told Greer to dispense with the formalities unless they are unavoidable. “I swear we really did try. She’s been so good the entire time you’ve been away.”

 

“She always is,” Bash says, causing Tara to blush, Lord Castleroy to chuckle agreeably at his wife’s side, and Greer to cease apologizing. “And where’s Charlie?”

 

“Here, Your Majesty,” Gabrielle says from behind Greer, coming forward and curtseying once Kenna has taken her boy into her arms.

 

“Oh, I missed you, too,” she says, peppering Charlie’s face with kisses that he turns from, squirming toward Bash, who looks pleasantly surprised, smile widening. She can’t help it; for a moment, she’s almost jealous as Charlie settles contentedly into his arms.

 

Andrew is next, sweeping a bow to them before kissing Kenna on both cheeks. After that, he elbows Callum, who remembers his courtesies then, too.

 

When she looks to Andrew again behind Callum, she sees his narrowed eyes.

 

“Are you well?" Andrew demands.

 

As though she needed further attention drawn to her in front of courtiers who are already gawking, she thinks, blushing self-consciously and resisting the urge to smooth down her dress over the unmistakable curve of her belly. “I –”

 

But before she can answer, Adelaide rescues her. “Likely just hungry after a long voyage. It’s a good thing there’s a feast tonight.”

 

“That’s it,” she agrees. “I’m positively starving.” Though she realizes then that _something_ must be said or else all the courtiers who don’t know with absolute certainty will tiptoe around her because they’ll think she’s just grown fat.

 

“Shall we?” Bash asks, smoothly offering her his arm after Gabrielle takes Charlie from him and offering the other to Tara.

 

\---

 

In the end, Andrew is given the task of stating the obvious, for which they will reward him by naming him one of the coming child’s godparents. He chooses to do it at the party celebrating his betrothal – a party she and Greer do their best to distinguish from the other events during the weeks of festivities that nearly equaled their combined wedding-coronation in their grandeur following the _entrée joyeuse_ – since Adelaide does not particularly like being the center of attention anyway. This will serve to shift the attention from them after they’ve had what they consider a reasonable share of it.

 

After toasting his betrothed – declaring himself the “most fortunate man in Christendom” so sincerely that half the ladies of the court sigh and all those who are unmarried lament that Lady Adelaide captured him before they had a chance – and then the king and queen who’ve honored their betrothal with such a dazzling celebration, Andrew toasts the coming prince or princess, stopping short because his words are so thoroughly drowned out by the _hurrahs_ of the court.

 

\---

 

With one godfather selected, Greer decides that it is appropriate to begin making plans for the baby’s christening and Kenna cannot help but contrast these plans with the simpler christenings of her older children, both of which occurred in the parish church at Tarras, whereas this baby will most likely be christened at the Chapelle des Trinitaires at Fontainebleau.

 

Andrew is Tara’s godfather as well. And though Tara was no royal child at the time, Mary had been her godmother by proxy. When she’d written to Mary upon her daughter’s birth, saying that she wished they had been in France so that Tara could have Mary for a godmother as a sort of olive branch, Mary had written back that she was deeply touched and wished the same, but that she could be represented by a proxy if Kenna wished it. She’d thought it would be a good-faith gesture to the royal couple to say yes and that Mary would be tolerable for Bash where Francis, even represented by a proxy, would never have been.

 

Luckily Mary had had the good sense not to make a similar offer on behalf of her husband. With Marie de Guise recently dead, Mary had commanded her Protestant half-brother to select the greatest Catholic lady at her court in Scotland to appear at Tara’s christening as her proxy. The greatest Catholic lady at court was none other than Lola’s mother, who was most eager to show her Catholic bona fides and to gain Mary’s notice and favor when rumors that Lord Frederick was a Protestant sympathizer were spreading so quickly through the corridors of Holyroodhouse.

 

Aunt Fiona is Charlie’s godmother and John his godfather, something she’s purposely avoided discussing with Bash. He won’t like it once they have cause to talk about it but she must tell him someday, and it’s not as if she was . . . romantically entangled with John at the time; when Charlie was christened, John was nothing more than a loyal friend to her family, the only person willing to make inquiries at court on behalf of her children, especially precious when so many others had turned their backs on them. She supposes it is ironic that the Scottish ambassador to England, now a decided Protestant, is godfather to the dauphin of Catholic France.

 

Her third child will have multiple godparents: in addition to Andrew, the baby will have Philip of Spain as godfather, with Elisabeth and Adelaide as godmothers. Philip – and most likely Elisabeth – will be represented by a proxy. They haven’t yet settled the question of who their proxies will be. She would have preferred Greer over Adelaide for the baby’s second godmother, but Greer converted to Protestantism soon after marrying Lord Castleroy, so as not to have their family divided in its religious affiliations.

**\---**

**S** he is still accustoming herself to her new position, to _their_ new positions, and though she’s lived at this court before, in the thick of it, when she served Mary, it is entirely different to be the very center of it, both wife and beloved of its king, mother of his children – his legitimate children, his _only_ children. She is happier than the queen she once served: she is not plagued by whispers of barrenness, fear of a royal cousin wishing her dead, or a husband going mad from a dangerous combination of guilt, poison, and the paranoia both induced.

 

Each time, it’s strange anew to realize that it’s all for her and her child: the _Te Deums_ , the profuse prayers of thanksgiving and prayers for their health, the elaborate toasts, and the extravagant gifts for the little prince – _or princess_ , as one courtier anxiously and dutifully repeats when corrected by Bash.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her daughter frown at that, when Kenna would have thought it would please her to have her father make clear to all that he values a girl as much as a boy and would welcome a girl just as joyfully.

 

“Though I think it would be rather hard on her to follow her older sister,” Bash adds, looking to Tara. “Who is the finest princess we could ever hope for.”

 

“Indeed, Madame Royale is a great blessing to all of France, the loveliest and sweetest princess in Christendom,” the poor beleaguered courtier whose name she cannot remember agrees obsequiously.

 

“And cleverest,” Bash adds.

 

“ _And_ modest about her gifts as well, though that will be ruined if you keep admiring her so excessively, my love,” she chides Bash.

 

“Nothing could spoil her,” he disagrees, though he blushes, ever so slightly, at his public display of fatherly pride, which the assembled courtiers smile indulgently to see.

 

Though not completely restored to her earlier cheerfulness, Tara blushes and seems mollified by the extravagant praise.

 

\---

 

The grand birthday celebration for Tara that follows shortly after leads to murmurs that Gabrielle brings to her attention and to Greer’s, murmurs about how markedly the king favors his daughter, that he acts as though she is the heir rather than the dauphin, that the king has little love for the little dauphin.

 

“I know that he’s only a little boy, but it’s that sort of thing that drives a wedge between a king and his heir once he is grown, to the detriment of the royal family and the kingdom,” Greer says anxiously.

 

Privately, she thinks Greer should stop consulting with people who make her so anxious, but there is no harm in countering the perception and she does not want her children to grow resentful of each other, or of their father.

 

“And well, there’s the fact that . . .”

 

“That what?”

 

“That Tara was born during your marriage, with Bash present, that everyone at Holyrood could see how he doted on her before your marriage was annulled; while Charlie was not, you were at home again, but with Bash at Holyrood, and he didn’t know until weeks and weeks later when Cardinal Verrazzo told him and never saw him until you arrived at court.”

 

“How do you even know that?”

 

“So it’s true? All of it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Gossip. Court gossip Gabrielle tells me after you’ve left, when you’ve heard what you consider the important things. That’s how I know,” Greer says sharply. It’s a rebuke if she’s ever heard one. “Kenna, how could you be so . . . so _stupid_?”

 

She stiffens. “I was angry. I wanted to act as though he was dead to me. And I didn’t want to draw Mary’s attention to my son when she had no child of her own. Do you think I could’ve guessed we’d find ourselves here, that my son would be the heir to this throne – _any_ throne – someday and that we’d have to worry about whether gossiping courtiers believed he was really his father’s son?” For a moment, she wonders if anyone might be behind the innuendo, but dismisses it – she can’t be so paranoid. She’s bound the person who would most benefit from people crediting the lie to them. And even if he were somehow behind the gossip, she’s with child again and this child could be a boy as easily as a girl.

 

It’s only people who want something _scandalous_ to talk about weaving bits and pieces of truth together to create a lie because a happy royal family gives them nothing to talk about. It must be.

 

“Of course not,” Greer sighs. “I’m sorry. But I can’t imagine how bad the gossip would be if he didn’t look so much like Bash. Thank God for that, at least.”

 

\---

 

In the end, Charlie also has a grand celebration of his own, a celebration that drives poor Greer half-mad as she adds ever greater flourishes to make it clear that there are no favorites among the royal children. A grand celebration that, at just three, Charlie can hardly appreciate and will probably not remember in the slightest, save for his favorite gift, which he takes to at once: the gentle but spirited pony Bash gifts him over Kenna’s protests that he is too young.

 

Tara suggests calling the pure-white pony Lux – _light_ in Latin, in the spirit of her own ponies.

 

“Won’t you want to call one of your own ponies that?” asks Bash.

 

Kenna gives him a withering look to do Nanny Moira proud. Tara does not need _four_ ponies. He needs to be reined in, if not for Tara’s sake, for the sake of poor Greer’s sanity.

 

But perhaps Tara isn’t entirely spoiled, because she says that she already has three and Charlie only has one. “But maybe Charlie’s ponies should have other names,” she agrees.

 

Charlie, though thoroughly delighted with his pony, has no suggestions of his own, only calling him “Pony” when demanding to see him. “Pony, please!” becomes a frequent enough refrain to give Kenna a headache.

 

After two weeks of namelessness, she begins to think that the poor creature will be called Pony forever until Tara comes to supper with a suggestion from her tutor: Pegasus, for the pure white horse from the Greek myths. “Pony” is christened Pegasus at once, though Charlie only cheerfully calls him “Peg,” constantly demanding to go “see Peg now” despite Tara’s insistent corrections.

 

\---

 

As time passes, she is thoroughly distracted by her children and her new duties and by the progress of her pregnancy, which is thoroughly distracting in itself, not to mention the rather . . . voracious appetites that accompany it, but she is brought back to earth by court gossip brought to her by none other than her daughter.

 

“Mama,” Tara begins in that plaintive, slightly anxious tone she so rarely uses, but that always worries Kenna when she does.

 

“Yes?” When Tara remains silent, Kenna looks at her and realizes that she has turned her face away, flushing. “What is it?”

 

“I heard – I heard someone say – will we be sent away?”

 

“We?” Is Tara anxious about new sibling? “You and Charlie? Of –”

 

“Charlie and me and you.”

 

There is a half-moment where her heart makes to thunder in her chest, but no, Tara must merely have misunderstood something. She must have.


	42. whole (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wonders, sadly, if her daughter feels truly safe and secure, feels that what she has won’t be taken from her, but she hopes that these are not constant insecurities, only fears sown just now by foolish court gossip, fears that are unfounded now and always will be.

“Tara, why would you think such a thing?”

 

They have been through so much together, Kenna and her daughter, things that Tara still remembers all too well. Even Tara’s _name_ illustrates the instability of her young life. She’s gone from Mistress Tara de Poitiers to Lady Tara de Poitiers to Mistress Tara Livingston and then Lady Tara de Valois, Mistress of Mar. And now she is a princess. It’s enough to confuse even the cleverest of children.

 

She wonders, sadly, if her daughter feels truly safe and secure, feels that what she has won’t be taken from her, but she hopes that these are not constant insecurities, only fears sown just now by foolish court gossip, fears that are unfounded now and always will be.

 

“I heard someone say something about us – you and me and Charlie being,” she frowns, as if trying to recall a very particular turn of phrase. _“As nothing_ to Father.”

 

“As nothing? I am his queen and you are the princess royal and Charlie is the dauphin. We’re the opposite of nothing and, more to the point, he loves us very much. Who said that?”

 

“I don’t know their names.”

 

“Do you remember anything else they said?”

 

“Something about a – a . . . _maitresse-en-titre_ and . . .  And bringing beautiful daughters and sisters to court . . .” Tara frowns, but it seems she cannot remember anything else.

 

“It’s nonsense,” she says firmly, but her blood runs cold with fear, then hot with anger, and then she reaches for parchment and a quill. She has not made it this far by being a meek, passive woman.

 

\---

 

She cannot give this message to just anyone; Greer is no simple maid, but her chief lady-in-waiting, yet she trusts no one else save her or Nanny Moira and Nanny Moira would balk at the idea of interrupting a meeting of the Privy Council for anything save Kenna or her children being in real danger.

 

But she will not have her power undermined or her daughter upset for the world.

 

_I don’t care where you are or what you’re doing. You will get up and leave and you will make a great show of doing it with the greatest possible haste. You will make it quite clear that I require you – preferably that I’m waiting for you in your bed – without, of course, saying so in so many words, and that not even wild horses could keep you away._

 

\---

 

Bash frowns when she is done explaining why she summoned him to her rooms with such a cold, terse, commanding note. “You have nothing to fear. You know that,” he says sharply. “Don’t you?” he finishes with sudden uncertainly, looking rather hurt when she doesn’t immediately reply.

 

“I do know that,” she says in her best placating tones. “But I want the court to know it, too. I don’t want anyone even to _think_ you could be turned away from me, even now.”

 

“Even now?” His brow is furrowed in confusion. “Even now what? That we’re married again?”

 

“Now that –” She gestures helplessly at herself. He can’t possibly be this obtuse; it _is_ common enough for kings, even those generally faithful to their marriage vows, to turn to other women when their queens are with child.

 

His eyes track her rather jerky gesticulations and she sees when the understanding finally dawns in his eyes. “Kenna,” he half-sighs, half-laughs.

 

“Don’t laugh at me!” she hisses. Now she is the one hurt at his reaction.

 

“I’m not –” He falls silent with another sigh, and leans forward to kiss her, spreading his fingers over her belly, warm and strong and comforting through the fabric of her shift as he deepens the kiss.

 

And now she’s the one sighing, but from pleasure rather than frustration as he moves to kiss her neck.

 

“If anything, I find I rather like you like this.” The words muttered against her skin are hot and possessive, and they might inflame her if _like this_ didn’t mean . . .

 

“Fat?” she asks, appalled, eyes snapping open, the haze of desire clearing at once. Her belly is bigger than it was at this stage during her previous pregnancies and she feels so clumsy and heavy.

 

“Not fat,” he scolds. He touches his nose to hers, a playful gesture of the sort that’s all too rare between them since their happier days at Livingston House, and then lifts his head to look at her again. “Carrying my child.”

 

“You like to be reminded of your own virility,” she corrects laughingly, the darker turn of her temper averted. “Such a man.”

 

“No, it’s you. You’re . . . you’re beautiful always, but pregnant you . . . blossom. Bloom.”

 

It’s . . . sweet, especially because he’s usually not one for flowery words. But did he say such things to Mary, when – No. _No. I’ll drive myself mad if I think like that._ She wrinkles her nose. “You make me sound like a flower. A very fat flower.”

 

“Stop that. I forbid you to speak so about the queen of France.”

 

She plays along, casting down her eyes. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I won’t do it again,” she promises, looking up at him through her lashes.

 

Satisfied, he nods, eyes full of laughter. “Good girl.”

 

“Even if she is an unwieldy slattern who would have summoned you to her bed at mid-day even without appearances to keep up.”

 

“Kenna!” he scolds, but the laughter in his eyes remains. “Now it’s true you’re not a delicate flower –”

 

Now she feels like a bloody horse. Now she wants to hit him.

 

He must sense the latest turn of her temper, because he hastens to explain his foolish words. “The only thing you have in common is your beauty. Otherwise . . . you’re too lively, too strong to be compared to such a fragile thing. You’re _strong_ ,” he repeats with a sudden intensity, eyes boring into hers.

 

Perhaps it is the intensity in his eyes or the insistence on her strength – she knows that he considers that an attractive quality, that he’s never been one to like meek, simpering women – but she suddenly feels rather predatory. Or perhaps it’s just the way her blood runs too hot when she is with child for her to be ruled by her self-consciousness for long. Particularly when she has a husband to attend to her needs again.

 

And, oh, what needs she has.

 

He catches the change in her mood at once – it’s the hunter in him; she supposes some things never change – and his eyes darken as they sweep over her. Without any warning, he tugs her shift up until she has no choice but to lift her arms so he can slide it off and over her head. She wears nothing under it and he makes an approving noise deep in his throat when he sees that she is now completely bare to him.

 

She disposes of his clothes just as quickly, not wanting to be alone in her nakedness.

 

He kisses her first, fiercely, and she responds in kind until he breaks away to turn his attention lower to her breasts. He’s always lavished them with attention, but they are sensitive now and so he is gentler, gentle enough that his touch somehow brings only pleasure.

 

Then he turns his attention lower still.

 

After he takes her over the edge twice with fingers and lips and tongue, she finally gets what she wanted from the start, what she always wants lately, it seems. She looks down at him, takes in his mussed hair and flushed cheeks, how the stubble on his chin glistens with her arousal, and can’t resist the urge to mark him, so she bites at his neck when he sits up, high enough to be visible no matter what he wears. “You’re mine,” she tells him.

 

“I’m yours,” he agrees fervently. “And you’re mine.”

 

“I am. Let no one forget it.” But then she kisses at the abused flesh, both out of a sudden tenderness and to hide her blush at her possessiveness.

 

When she lifts her lips, he raises his head for a kiss, eyes lit with a very _male_ sort of pride that drives her mad and she decides right then that she will drive _him_ mad this night.

 

She succeeds, naturally.

 

In the end, he comes shouting her name loud enough for all their servants and half the castle to hear him – but only after she’s had her pleasure again, of course.

 

 _Let them all hear_ , she thinks triumphantly. Let them all hear and know that even as she grows heavier with his child, he continues to desire her.

 

Let them all hear and know that she is the only woman in their king’s bed and at his side and in his heart, and that none will supplant her.

 

\---

 

But soon enough it’s time for her confinement, one of the few aspects of the protocol for royal pregnancies that she’s actually adhered to after dispensing with much of it, to Greer’s deep distress, despite the fact that she herself knows half of it is nonsense even without Nanny Moira’s scathing critiques.

 

During her previous, more relaxed confinements at Tarras, she was still active, more active than anyone would consider proper, nearly driving Nanny Moira mad, but she couldn’t help it. She remained quite energetic and has never been good at sitting still.

 

But this time is different. While the earlier months of her pregnancy were pleasant enough after her nausea subsided, with her energy high and her appetites voracious, now she feels confined in every sense of the word. She cannot manage stairs any longer, her ankles are so swollen she can no longer tell where they end and her legs begin, and she aches constantly, her lower back screaming in pain whenever she rises from her bed.

 

At first, Nanny Moira assured her that it is quite normal for women to show more and sooner in subsequent pregnancies, but as the weeks pass and her belly grows ever-larger, Nanny Moira’s reassurances become less assured and she sees the shadow that falls over Nanny Moira’s face whenever she looks at her.

 

Even if she felt better, leaving her rooms would require dressing for it and the idea of wearing anything but a thin shift now is inconceivable to her. Much as it annoys her, she spends nearly all her time lollygagging in bed.

 

She does have Greer and Adelaide and her other ladies to keep her company during the day. They read to her, play cards with her, sew the finest little garments for the baby, and even sing for her to soothe her when she’s ill-tempered. Lady Constance, the Duke of Toulouse’s dashing, darkly beautiful daughter, is new among them and sings like an angel, her heavenly voice belying her devilish wit. Lovely Lady Amelie, the recently widowed niece of Lord Narcisse, in whose keeping her young children remain since he returned to his principal estate with Lola, often joins Lady Constance in her efforts to entertain Kenna.

 

When Greer suggested Lady Amelie, Kenna thought it over long and hard. She hesitated to bring Lord Narcisse’s kin into her safe haven when she has not fully squashed the suspicion that shook her the day of her wedding – that if not the Reynes or Louis or some unseen enemy, Lola and her husband may have been behind the attempt on Bash’s life, a long-delayed lashing out over the loss of Jean. It is a suspicion she dares share not even with Greer, and she knows she would still welcome Lola back with open arms if she ever chose to return to court, ashamed of her own distrust.

 

So in the end, she agrees to the appointment but endeavors to make Lady Amelie a grand second marriage, one that will send her far from court quickly. In the meantime, she asks Gabrielle – who has become a most useful asset in the months since Diane’s death – to arrange for Lady Amelie to be carefully watched. Their network of anonymous “little birds” – unobtrusive chambermaids and nursemaids and laundering women and other servants – follow her to any assignations, her correspondence read in minute detail by those who know how. She also asks Greer to ensure that Lady Amelie never handles anything to be eaten or drunk or even worn – she remembers the horrific incident with the poisoned dress meant for Mary – by her or her children or Bash. “I know Lola loves the man, but I don’t trust anyone related to Narcisse farther than I can throw them.”

 

In addition to her ladies, she has Bash, who tries to spend as much time with her as he can – dispensing with yet another royal protocol, he even sleeps beside her each night – but he has an entire kingdom that requires his attention, not to mention the two very lively children they already have, and cannot devote himself exclusively to her. It would be unreasonable to expect otherwise, she tells herself.

 

And besides, he must be exhausted. He’s begun to wake in the night to brood by the bay window she insisted on having in the bedchamber of the queen’s apartments.

 

She realizes it because she immediately senses the loss of his warmth beside her. She also sees those same dark smudges under his eyes that she recalls from their days at Holyrood before he set aside their marriage and she grows terribly anxious.

 

But he would not do such a thing to her and the children again, not now, would he? There would be no reason now but love of another and, if she can count on one thing in a world that has otherwise changed so much, it is on his love for her and for their children.

 

And yet, still, she worries.


	43. whole (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, when she awakens from her nap, blinking sleepily, she overhears them speaking. She hears her name and forces herself to focus.

Charlie quickly notes her absence once she goes into her confinement, demanding to know where Mama is when she isn’t there when he wants and expects her.

 

According to an exceptionally disapproving Nanny Moira, Charlie throws a _shocking_ tantrum and she is aghast when they reward it by commanding that he be brought to her rooms at once. 

 

\---

 

One moment Charlie is at her door and the next he is beside her bed, clambering up quickly. It turns out Charlie is as jealous a child as Tara once was. “What’s in there?” he asks once her ladies-in-waiting and even Nanny Moira have cleared out and he is left entirely alone with them, Tara most likely off playing with Greer’s children.

 

When they do not answer quickly enough to satisfy him, Charlie attempts to answer his own question by pushing down on her belly, eliciting a mild but firm warning from Bash. “Gently with your mother, now.”

 

Charlie huffs but obeys.

 

“The baby,” she explains.

 

Charlie pouts, frown deepening when the baby replies to another surreptitious push carefully hidden from their stern papa by kicking against his brother’s small but intrusive hand.

 

Until recently vigorous enough that she felt as though she was black and blue inside, the baby’s kicks have lessened in their intensity as he runs out of room, but it seems his brother has provoked him into the fierce response of old.

 

“No, me, Mama,” Charlie insists.

 

“No, you’re my little man.”

 

Charlie looks positively mutinous at that, eyes darkening from their usual emerald to a forest green. “No.”

 

Oh God, they’ve spoiled him dreadfully.

 

“It’s much more fun to be a big brother than the little one,” Bash offers with a mischievous smile that does not quite reach his eyes. “You can boss your brother or sister about like Tara does you.”

 

She’s not sure their three-year-old son fully understands the concept of bossing about one’s sibling, but his eyes light with interest, perhaps because of Bash’s conspiratorial tone, though he pouts as Bash leaves them, kissing her and ruffling his hair.

 

Though she supposes Charlie better get used to it; he is the dauphin. Someday he’ll be “bossing about” the whole kingdom, though of course they will teach him not to be a tyrant, to be a good and just king when he follows his father. Even months later, it’s strange to think it, her son the heir to a throne – even stranger than Bash a king. For better or worse, that she’s had some years to get used to.

 

But she does not know if that is a day she wishes to live to see, because a dauphin becoming king necessarily requires the death of the king before him. That king being Bash, her heart, which might otherwise burst with pride to see her son rule well, will be too broken for joy or pride or likely for any feeling at all.

 

Perhaps that is why royal marriages are usually made for alliances and power and wealth rather than love. So that queens won’t love their husbands half as well as they do their children and won’t be heartbroken when their sons ascend their fathers’ thrones.

 

She doesn’t realize she is crying until Charlie scrambles up on his knees to pat her face. “Don’t cry, Mama. Don’t cry.” When she can’t stop herself and only pulls him as close as her enormous belly allows, he doesn’t squirm away and clamber off the bed because he cannot reach for Bash, who is probably on his way to a meeting with the privy council. Instead, Charlie rests his head against her belly like Tara once did when he was the baby inside and cuddles close. For once the baby is calm, too, and they fall asleep that way.

 

They don’t wake up until hours later when Tara bursts in after her afternoon with the Castleroy children, nose and cheeks red from the sun to Greer’s apologetic horror, a bit jealous that she wasn’t invited to the family nap until Kenna lifts the covers for Tara to get in on the other side of her.

 

\---

 

Unfortunately, her first birthday as Queen of France falls during her confinement.

 

She teases Bash that he must make up to her the inconvenient timing of her pregnancy, that next year her party must be twice as grand and twice as expensive, ribbing he regularly agrees to with a distracted smile. Nor does he seem as pleased with her reaction to her gift – a bracelet of sapphires, each the size of her little nail – as he once would have been.

 

“Any larger and I wouldn’t be able to lift my wrist!” she says with great pleasure, inspecting the individual stones and noting their exceptional clarity. Blue being the color of the House of Valois, her crown really ought to have been composed of sapphires or aquamarines, so she expects she’ll be receiving sapphires for quite a while. 

 

Although Bash assures her there are no serious problems in the kingdom, she knows something must be troubling him and she wishes she were free to help him as she was before. She consoles herself with the reminder that she will be free soon enough and with another baby to hold in her arms now that even Charlie is becoming more and more independent.

 

\---

 

She does not think to connect Bash’s difficulty sleeping and distraction with Nanny Moira’s worried looks until she is very, very close to her time. One day, when she awakens from her nap, blinking sleepily, she overhears them speaking. She hears her name and forces herself to focus.

 

“I fear for Kenna,” Bash says. “And I can’t lose her now, when I’ve only just gotten her back. I couldn’t bear it. Everything else – even giving her up and making her hate me – I could bear because I knew she was safe and well. But this – this would destroy me and – and the children – they – I’m so selfish! How could I not think of them, of how they would feel to lose their mother?”

 

“You are thinking of them now,” Nanny Moira says gently, more kindly than Kenna has ever heard speak to Bash, even before he annulled their marriage. When Tara was born, Nanny Moira had had no patience for his nerves. “If – if the worst should happen . . . it would not be the same, but they would have me always. But it won’t come to that. I won’t allow it to.”

 

Bash laughs humorlessly. “How could you prevent it? You couldn’t for her mother –”

 

Callum was a large baby, she recalls that much, remembering the whispers she heard after all was said and done. And she has always been slender, like her mother, lacking the so-called birthing hips that help ease women’s way through their labors. She knows that Nanny Moira had been concerned the first time – and Father, though he insisted that all would be well – but Tara’s birth had been easier than most.

 

It had been harder with Charlie, although Nanny Moira and the midwife blamed that on “distress because of _the situation_ ” – the euphemistic way they referred to the annulment of her marriage and her former husband’s subsequent marriage to the Queen of Scots.

 

“I saw my cousin die before my very eyes, bringing her child into the world, and there was nothing we could do to stop it, try though we did. Claude nearly died, too. And –” He takes a shaky breath.

 

“Queen Mary,” Nanny Moira finishes for him because it is clear that he can’t. “How – if you don’t mind –” It is unusually solicitous of her; she is usually so matter-of-fact, but it is obvious even Nanny Moira recognizes how painful a memory it must be.

 

After an uncomfortable silence, Bash begins to answer the unfinished question, one not even she has ever asked him. “She struggled terribly, grew weaker and weaker. The child became stuck.” His voice is now toneless and so very far away.

 

Selfishly, she is grateful then for her impulse to avoid this subject, for her failure to ask how he feels about the loss of his child by Mary – a child whose survival would have bound him to the Scottish throne for life, might have separated him from her and from their children for just as long, and could have stolen from them the life they have now, from Charlie his birthright.

 

“I was told I must choose. But I didn’t. I said they must both be saved. Instead they were both lost. I won't make the same mistake again. I can’t. I cared for Mary, but I didn’t love her as I once did before Kenna – and even then, I never loved her as I do Kenna – and her death was terrible enough. I . . . I feel so much guilt for it. I dream about it and I dream of Kenna in her place. But Kenna – I – I can’t. I couldn’t bear it.”

 

How awful. Now she understands why he rises in the night, why he tells her again and again that she is strong – his dreams remind him of the dangers that await her, but perhaps if he says it enough times, he can will it to be true, will her to survive as Claude did, will her to avoid the fate of Mother and his cousin Isobel and Mary. Somehow – perhaps she is foolish or foolhardy – she is not afraid for herself, but her heart breaks for him.

 

This should be a happy time. It mostly has been for her despite her discomfort, until now, now that she knows just how afraid her husband and her beloved nanny are.

 

The baby kicks then, quite hard, as has been his wont these past months– she refers to it as a boy, for some reason. Perhaps unconsciously the idea of _an heir and a spare_ has seeped into her thoughts.

 

She prays their fears are unfounded and will come to nothing when the time comes and resolves to speak to Bash about it when he comes to her that night. As with every other royal protocol, Bash only obeys what he thinks necessary and otherwise does what he will when he will.

 

\---

 

But before she can, just before supper that night, her time is through.

 

“I want Bash!” she cries out as the latest contraction releases her from its painful grip. “Nanny, I want him!” She must speak to him before –

 

Nanny Moira wipes the sweat from her brow and tries to placate her, her words low, slow, and soothing. “That’s not the way of it, little lass, and you know it. And do you really want him to see you now? You wouldn’t have him in the room at all until it was over the first time; you wanted fresh clothes, your hair brushed, perfume at your neck and wrists, and the baby clean and swaddled in your arms first. Do you remember?” Nanny asks insistently.

 

She nods weakly.

 

“Will you do differently now that you’re a queen and he a king and this child will be born a prince or a princess?”

 

“Nanny, _please_ , I beg you –” she pleads as the pain hits anew.

 

“Queens don’t beg,” Nanny Moira reminds her, but the rebuke is not as sharp as her scolding usually is. It seems she is too nervous for it today; her eyes are filled with anxiety as Kenna grips her hands.

 

“Must I order you to fetch him then?” she asks at the end of a deep breath, knowing not from where she summons the strength to sass her nanny and, in doing so, soothe her fears.

 

With the faintest of smiles, Nanny Moira rises immediately from her place at Kenna’s side.

 

\---

 

Bash is there so quickly that he must have been waiting just without. He takes her hands at once and kisses her brow.

“I need you to promise me something.”

 

“Anything.”

 

_I was told I must choose. But I didn’t. I said they must both be saved. Instead they were both lost. I won’t make the same mistake again. I can’t._

 

“If you must choose, choose the baby.”

 

“It won’t come to –”

 

“If it does –”

 

“Kenna, please, I couldn’t. Don’t ask that of –”

 

“Promise me!” she nearly screams as her womb contracts again, fingers digging into his so hard that she fears she will break them.

 

He almost chokes on the words. “I – I promise. But don’t think like that, I beg you.”

 

“Kings don’t beg,” she tells him haughtily when she is able to speak once more.

 

“My fierce queen,” he laughs, seemingly despite himself. But he is quickly solemn again. “I love you.”

 

“I love you, too.”

 

He presses a quick kiss to her lips.

 

She tries not to notice the tears in his eyes as Nanny Moira all but pushes him out of their chambers and soon she is too preoccupied with her own pain to care about anything else at all.


	44. whole (part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the hazy hours that follow, as night turns into day, she remembers other words of Bash’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to believe I've reached the end of this behemoth of a story. Thank you to everyone who's read, left kudos, commented, and otherwise stuck with me and this story <3 (Special thanks to remmierose.)
> 
> There will be a one-shot or two in this universe to follow.

In the hazy hours that follow, as night turns into day, she remembers other words of Bash’s.

 

_I would rather you live hating me than die loving me._

 

And she knows then that she cannot rely on the promise she extracted today or his promise, before they remarried, not to lie to her. As she would do anything to keep him and their children safe, he would do anything to keep her safe, even something for which she would never forgive him.

 

And so she must live, she and the baby both, so that it doesn’t come to that, else she knows she _will_ hate him, even if he breaks his promise out of love. They will _live_ , she vows to herself as she bears down with all her might.

 

\---

 

She feels weak, exhausted, but it is all worth it when she hears that long-awaited lusty wail. “Is it –”

 

“A strong, strapping boy, Your Majesty, a fine, healthy prince for France,” the chief midwife, Mistress Anne, says happily, nearly laughing with relief.  

 

She knows that they have all been anxious; even though it isn’t as if it’s any fault of the midwives or the physician, men who receive daughters instead of the desired sons don’t necessarily care who they vent their disappointment upon, kings most of all.

 

She doesn’t care that it’s a boy; there is already Charlie, and Bash adores Tara. He’s made it clear that he would not have been disappointed with another girl. She only cares that this new baby is healthy. “Thank you,” she says faintly, but with a smile. “I’d like –”

 

“As soon as we’ve cleaned him off, Your Majesty, we’ll have him in your arms at once. And then of course, we must tidy you up, as well as your bed, before the king and –”

 

“But first, your son –” Nanny Moira interrupts.

 

“If you don’t mind, just a little bit longer while we sort out the afterbirth,” Mistress Anne insists softly, but firmly, washing her hands with lye soap as advised by Nostradamus.

 

Thankfully, it’s a quicker process than in the past, still a bit painful, but nothing compared to the birth.

 

Only then the midwives fuss so very much, clucking and poking and prodding and she’s growing ever so _tired_ that she wants to order the women to hurry up. She wants to hold her baby already.

 

Then, at last, the baby is settled in her arms. She presses a kiss against his tiny, smooth forehead and then just looks at him, marveling that he is here and hers. _Ours_ , she corrects herself.

 

Mistress Anne is right that he is a strapping boy, bigger than Tara or Charlie were at birth, longer-limbed and heavier in her arms. No wonder she grew so large. He has a fine dusting of hair on his head, though lighter than Charlie and Bash, more like Tara and her. Tara and Charlie otherwise resemble one another quite strongly, with Bash’s brilliant eyes and features that mostly resemble her own, but she thinks Charlie may grow more like his father as he gets older – he is only three now, still little more than a chubby-cheeked cherub, after all.

 

She thinks the baby may have her nose as well and she remembers Father then, when Tara was born. _She has her father’s eyes, but that, that’s certainly your nose, your mother’s nose. And the same mouth. She’ll be a pretty little lass like her mother._ It saddens her to think that Father is not here to see her new baby, that he did not ever meet Charlie.

 

The baby’s eyes are screwed shut, as though he is not entirely pleased with idea of being out in the world quite yet and doesn’t wish to examine it too closely. She’d like to know if he shares the eye color of his father and older siblings. She hopes he does. She likes Bash’s eyes far better than her own. But there is time for that later.

 

With an apologetic look, Mistress Anne asks to take the baby in the midst of Kenna’s contemplation of him. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but we need to get you ready; the king and the dauphin and the princess are most eager to see you two. I think the king will knock down the door if we don’t allow them in soon!”

 

As much as she’s enjoyed these precious few quiet moments with the baby, she is eager to have them all together.

 

\---

 

Tara forgets to be a princess for a moment, like she hasn’t done since the day they returned to court after their honeymoon, running ahead of her father and brother. “Mama! Mama!”

 

“Hush, girl –” Nanny Moira will never bother with _Your Majesty_ or _Your Highness_ or _my lord_ or any of the appropriate formalities, save in a reprimanding sort of way. Kenna and Tara (and Andrew and Callum and Charlie) are children that she has raised – she’s changed their nappies, nursed them through illness, cuddled them, taken them over her knee when necessary – and children whose hurts she’s kissed and tears she’s wiped away. “Don’t disturb the baby. And your mother’s quite tired.”

 

“But you’re all right, Mama?” Tara asks anxiously, hovering at her side. Tara is still a child, but unlike Charlie, old enough to have some vague inkling of what goes on in a birthing chamber, and sensitive enough to have noticed her father’s and her nanny’s troubled moods.

 

“Quite all right, darling. Sit down.” It’s a very large bed; there’s room for all five of them – _five_.

 

“Well done, wife,” Bash says with a kiss to her brow. The relief in him is palpable and she feels very . . . emotional when she thinks of how he feared for them. He sits down and settles Charlie down beside her.

 

Tara sits down gingerly near her legs, leaning forward to peer down at her new sibling. “The baby is bigger than Charlie was, isn’t it?” Though Tara, like most people, had spoken of the baby as a boy before he was born, now is the moment she’ll find out for sure.

 

She makes a noise of agreement.

 

“What is it?” Charlie asks when they’re all settled.

 

“A baby,” Kenna teases.

 

“He means a boy or a girl, Mama,” Tara translates in a long-suffering sort of way.

 

The question was Charlie’s, but her eyes are on Bash when she answers. “A boy.”

 

He smiles and she smiles back and, for a moment, it’s just the two of them until Charlie demands a closer look – “let me see, let me see!” – since he can’t see the baby’s face from his spot on the bed, so of course Bash must lift him up, and Tara says, “oh, good!” and the spell is quite broken.

 

She’s all right with the interruptions, though, because it’s a perfectly normal family moment. She wants as many of those as she can get and hopes they have many years’ worth of them to look forward to.

 

\---

 

Inevitably, her sentimental musings are quickly interrupted when Tara asks “what will we call him? He needs a name, Mama.”

 

She smiles to herself at her daughter’s proprietary tone a moment before actually considering the question. She knows sons are often named for their fathers, as little Henry was for Henry, but the baby won’t be Sebastian because she’s never liked naming children for people still living. She’d only named Charlie for Charles as an act of defiance and because she thought they were unlikely ever to meet after she’d been set aside and her children bastardized.

 

That eliminates her brothers’ names as well. And they certainly won’t call him Henry. For a moment, she considers her own father, but James doesn’t seem like an appropriate name for a French prince. Not to mention that Mary’s son was probably meant to be James; Mary had always said she would name her firstborn son for her father, despite the fact that she was raised with the expectation that that son would someday be King of France after his father.

 

“What do you think we should call him?” Bash asks Tara, interrupting her thoughts.

 

Tara peers thoughtfully at the baby again and furrows her brow in thought. “I was named for Tarras, of course. And Charlie is named for our uncle who was the king before you . . .”

 

Something passes over Bash’s eyes then and she wonders what darker thought Tara’s innocent musings may have provoked.

 

“So I think the baby should be named after something important, too.”

 

Bash opens his mouth as if to speak and then stops.

 

But before she can ask him what he thinks, Tara does. “What do _you_ think, Father?”

 

Bash hesitates, his suggestion halting once he begins to speak. “Perhaps . . . if your mother agrees . . . he could be named after another one of your uncles, who was king before Charles.”

 

“Francis,” Tara supplies at once. They’ve never spoken of Francis to Tara other than when Kenna told her about Mary’s late husband, years ago, when explaining what “Aunt” Mary’s relation to her was. But Tara’s recently begun studying the kings of France who preceded her father with her tutor.

 

If Bash really is willing to name their son for Francis . . . well, then, he may truly have healed from one of his greatest losses – one of the greatest losses that couldn’t be undone, at any rate, because their family is whole again.

 

“I know you’re not supposed to have favorites among your brothers and sisters, but Francis was mine,” Bash says slowly, eyes far away as he returns, she suspects, to the better memories before everything became tainted by Francis’s madness.

 

“Not Aunt Claude?” Tara asks, surprised. She is very fond of Claude, after all.

 

But Kenna would rather not think of Claude, who may never forgive her for what she did to protect her family’s interests.

 

Bash blinks and looks at their daughter again. “No. We were close too, but it was different with Francis. He was just two years younger than me – even though I teased him and called him _little brother_ all the time like I was so much older and wiser,” he adds self-deprecatingly. “So we did everything together and we were thick as thieves. He was my best friend, and I . . . I loved him very much.”

 

Suddenly, she has tears in her eyes that she knows she can’t blame on just having given birth, but resists the urge to wipe them away and draw attention to herself.

 

“Then we should call _our_ brother Francis, too,” Tara decides. “Because he’ll be Charlie’s very best friend.” Tara looks at Charlie then. “And you’ll love him as much as Father loved our uncle Francis,” she continues imperiously, as though she has the power to make it so merely by saying it. “Won’t you?”

 

Rather than contradict Tara out of his not-infrequent, inexplicably endearing contrariness, Charlie, who has been snuggled close beside Kenna and the baby since Bash first lifted him up for a look, nods obediently.

 

Tara leans forward to plant a smacking kiss on Charlie’s cheek, which he allows, like he always does, despite jerking away from nearly anyone else. “Yes, you will,” she praises, a brilliant smile spreading over her face. “You’ll be the best big brother.”

 

“Because he has the best big sister,” Kenna interjects, something warm and wonderful spreading in her chest.

 

Tara flushes and looks away, obviously pleased, and Bash chuckles quietly at her sudden modesty.

 

Then Charlie silently leans over to kiss the baby’s forehead, causing the baby to shift in her arms at the small disturbance. “Sleepy boy,” Charlie whispers the same words that have been crooned to him so many times to ease him, touching the baby’s cheek. “Sleepy, sleepy boy.”

 

With the softest snuffle, the baby settles again.

 

Bash clears his throat, so she looks up from their boys to him, to find he is looking straight at her, eyes soft and warm. “Well, our sleepy boy still needs a name.”

 

Tara leans forward eagerly to hear her answer, too.

 

But Kenna has no words and only nods, because now she cannot imagine a better name, and Bash kisses her hair.

 

_THE END_


End file.
